


Living in Agony

by ChasingRabbits



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Anal Fingering, Anxiety, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Closeted Dean, Dean in Denial, Denial, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Fights, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Human Castiel, Human Gabriel, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, One Night Stands, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Queer Themes, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Slow Romance, Snarky Castiel, Teacher Castiel, Teacher Dean Winchester, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, bi erasure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 120,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingRabbits/pseuds/ChasingRabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester's life is... well, it's not great. He's a gym teacher, he's in his thirties, and he can't seem to keep any part of his life straight. When the aftermath of a one-night stand goes awry, Dean is dragged kicking and screaming out of his cozy little closet and into the harsh light of reality.  </p><p>Enter: Castiel Novak, the new history teacher, who knows full well that life gets crappy when you don't allow yourself to live it in the way it needs to be lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Couple of Vodka and Tonics

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from "Is There Life After Breakfast" by Ray Davies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/29/14: Hi there, I made edits to this first chapter. Nothing major, just polished it up a bit. :)
> 
> Also, this story deals with major depression. I'll try to keep up with tagging triggers, but if you see me slip up, let me know! Always happy to tag. 
> 
> All right, as you were.

_“You’re gonna regret the shit out of this.”_

_“You’re supposed to set an example for your students.”_

_“You’re thirty-one, not twenty-one,”_ Sam reminded him, as if he didn’t know.

Dean tosses back another shot of tequila and slams it down on the bar top, Gabe’s glass following close behind. Dean clears his throat and lets out a loud ‘ _whoo!’_

“Well, spit in my mouth and call me Sally,” Gabe whistles and flags down the bartender for two more. Dean is already starting to see double, focus flitting from Gabe to this bangin’ blonde bombshell at the end of the bar. It's Sam's fault for not letting him keep booze in the house--how's a man supposed to live, for shit's sake, especially at this time of the year.

Because the beginning of a new school year marks the end of his social life, and Dean is not looking forward to long nights of nothing but his right hand and the internet to satisfy his urges. If he’s going to go into hibernation, he may as well make his last night of freedom worthwhile.

Two more shots of courage slide down in front of him and Gabe. They clink glasses and toss ‘em back, leaving Dean even dizzier and more hot-blooded than before. To be honest, he’s lost count of how much he’s had. All he can see is that blonde, taut and firm, looking like she got poured into that little black dress.

She catches Dean looking at her and gives him a smile.

“Cover me,” he claps Gabe on the shoulder.

“ _Vaya con Dios, hombre_ ,” Gabe salutes, and tips back yet another shot in his honor.

Dean makes his way to the blonde and takes the seat beside her. “Buy you a drink?” he asks.

She gives him another smile and nods, “Seven and seven.”

Dean indicates just that at the bartender, along with a scotch and soda.

“So, drinking in a bar on a Wednesday night,” Dean begins, “What’s the occasion?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she returns as the bartender slides her drink into place.

“Fair enough,” Dean can’t stop smiling. “Me and my friend, we gotta go back to work tomorrow. Tonight’s sort of a last hurrah.”

"Military men?" she asks.

"Close," Dean nods. "We teach high school."

The woman laughs in that way gorgeous women do, her whole face alight and her head thrown back, exposing the long, smooth column of her neck. Wow, he is apparently much funnier when he’s drunk.

“And what about you?” he asks, and she gives him this look that says she knows every single secret that he has to tell.

“I’m forever called to the night life,” she says. “A lady of the night, if you will.”

Dean smirks, about to say something that will undoubtedly charm the panties right off of her, but his phone buzzes instead.

A text from Gabe.

_‘ABANDON SHIP.’_

Dean rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. Gabe can suck a fat dick if he thinks he’s going to get in on this. The lady is talking to him, and she will continue to do so until Dean, and only Dean, fucks her speechless.

Rule #72: No Threesomes With Your Coworkers.

“So,” Dean leans on the counter, pushing the thought of a threesome with Gabe far, far, _far_  out of his head. “A _lady of the night_ , you must know a little somethin’ about somethin’, huh?”

A sly look under her mascara-thick lashes, a tug upward of her ruby red lips, “Yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

“What’re you into?” Dean leans in a little closer.

“Baby, I’m into whatever you want me to be into,” she hums and drags her fingernails lightly over Dean’s cheek.

Phone buzzes again.

_‘GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE IDIOT’_

Dean ignores it once again. He’s got this chick on the line, and he’s not going to jeopardize it because his weird-ass best friend won’t leave him the fuck alone.

“Y’know, I don’t live too far from here,” says Dean.

The woman laughs and tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “While that’s very sweet, I’m actually staying at the motel down the street.”

She takes out her purse and hands Dean a plastic room key. When she stands, her dress barely covers the curve of her plump, firm ass. Dean wants nothing more than to press her down into a bed and bury his head between her legs. It's that kind of night--he's in the mood to turn a pretty lady's legs into jelly. 

“If you want a good time, you should meet me back there,” she ends with a wink and saunters out of the bar.

Dean, already feeling the bloom of arousal, slips the room key into his pocket.

This is only met by a smack upside the head from none other than Mr. Cockblock himself.

“What the fuck, dude?” Dean grabs the back of his head.

“ _Lady of the night_ means hooker, you dumbshit,” Gabriel declares loudly. “You’re not that funny, you’re certainly not smooth enough to pick up a lady that fuckin’ fast, and for god’s sake, ‘I’m into whatever you’re into’ is like Hooker 101.”

Oh, shit.

“Now,” Gabe continues, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t know that I can afford a two-hundred dollar pork on my best day.”

 _Shit_.

Dean downs the rest of his scotch and soda, as well as the seven and seven. Why not? He paid for them. 

Steadily, Dean’s vision gets worse and worse, his limbs get more and more gelatinous. Gabe tries to get him to buck up, but it’s of no use. Truth be told, Dean hasn’t been doing great in the lady department. He’s had a roll in the hay or two over the summer, but mostly he spent his summer working odd hours at the garage down the street and napping on the couch with Angus and Baron, his English Mastiff and his Beagle.

He wanted to hang out with Sam a little more, since he had free time, but Sam and Jess are _married_ and do _married_ people things. They don’t have time for the guy who’s been living in their spare bedroom for the last two years.

As Dean assesses the rest of the bar, he sees that Gabe has taken to chatting up the bartender, a thick redhead with tattoos all the way up both arms. He lets out a sigh.

Even Gabe is gonna take someone home tonight. Dean leans his hand on his chin and orders another whiskey, just as someone takes the seat beside him.

“Vodka tonic, please.”

“Vodka tonic,” Dean snorts. “Does that come with dentures or are those sold separately?”

The man glances over at him, and Dean can’t describe it. His cheeks and nose are flushed dark pink, indicating this is not the first vodka tonic he has likely ordered tonight. He’s also got an intense case of bed head and this strong jaw and this mouth.

It is a _mouth_.

“Can I help you?” the man asks. His voice has this raw, bold timbre that sounds not unlike it could command the heavens above if he so desired.

“I said,” Dean reiterates. “Does your vodka tonic come with dentures?”

“I’m aware of what you said,” the man nods. “Why are you saying it?”

“Because vodka tonics are for old people,” Dean rolls his eyes. This guy doesn’t look that old. He actually looks kind of young. Definitely not much older than Dean. 

“Why are you talking to me?” asks the man.

“Why are you askin’ me so many questions?” asks Dean right back. The man narrows his eyes and cocks his head, his cheeks now even darker pink. Dean doesn’t know what possesses him to continue, “And hey, now that I’m lookin’ at you, I’m glad I started talkin’ to you.”

Dean sees the tiniest smirk flit up on this guy’s lips just before he presses them to the rim of his vodka tonic. God, what Dean wouldn’t give to be that highball glass right now. 

Shit. Get it together, Winchester. There's harmless looking and unabashed lusting and right now he's on the wrong side of the spectrum. Oh, this does not bode well, especially when the stranger leans toward him, sharp blue eyes glassy and smile only barely balanced on both sides. 

“Well, of any face that had to spout a subpar barb at my drink choice, I’m glad it was your face.”

He nudges Dean’s knee under the bar and gives him a pointed look.

Dean is just far gone enough to let himself nudge back. 

“Do,” Dean swallows, “D’you drink alone in places like this all the time?”

 “I was actually supposed to meet someone, but it appears that I have been stood up.”

Dean looks around, head lolling from one side to the other as he combs the bar for someone he doesn’t even know. And the bartender’s shift must have just ended because she and Gabriel are both gone, and a new bartender has taken over.

“Yeah, don’t feel too bad,” Dean says. “I think I just got ditched myself.”

Dean tries to ignore the light in the stranger's eyes when he says this, and almost succeeds.

Almost.

“Well, she’s a woman of questionable decisions,” the man offers a smile, and  _goddamn it..._

“He,” Dean corrects, “And yeah, questionable decisions sounds about right.”

The man leans impossibly closer into him. Where he would normally find himself pushing away, Dean ends up drawn in. When this guy smiles, Dean ends up smiling and leaning in closer. He doesn’t understand a goddamn word coming out of his stupidly handsome face, just that he wants to put his mouth on that mouth. 

Fuck, Dean is the _worst_. 

The guy seems to pick up on whatever dangerous vibe Dean is putting out, because he tilts his head like he’s coming in for a kiss. Dean only remembers himself just in time to angle his face away. He catches himself on the stranger’s thigh, though, and finds that he is quite close to another danger zone—one with a lot more girth than the other.

Dean wets his lips—when did they get so dry?—and glances up at the guy. He’s watching him with this look in his eyes that has Dean running for his life… or, _would_ have him running if his brain and body weren’t experiencing connectivity issues.

The man casts a quick look around, “I am going to use the restroom. If you need to use the restroom, you should also do so.”

Dean’s lungs deflate entirely.

What the fuck, why won’t he _run_? Even weirder, why won’t he tell the guy he definitely does not ever swing that way.

… mostly not ever.

The thing is, Dean’s cock isn’t entirely opposed to the idea. And maybe he's drunkenly stumbled into a couple of similar situations before, but that's when he was young, stupid, impressionable. He's a fully grown adult, he can control himself.

Usually.

Right now, Dean's cock is rallying at the idea of this guy just _waiting_ in the bathroom for him. After the spectacular nosedive that was his first pickup attempt, he was pretty sure he was going home with nothing but his hand to drain the dull ache out of his balls. Truth be told, he'd take a dude over flying solo. 

Boy, that's not great, is it?

He checks to make sure Gabe is good and gone before he sways to his feet and stumbles his way back to the bathroom. The man is leaning against the sink, a dirty smirk stretched wide across his face.

“Lock the door,” he instructs. Dean’s about to open his mouth and snipe about not being told what to do, but that’s actually a good idea. He turns the deadbolt on the door and looks back to see the man palming himself through his… slacks.

Who wears slacks to a bar?

Dean steps forward until their bodies are flush, backs them up until the man is pressed into the scratched up tile wall beside the sink. This guy has the nicest neck he’s ever seen on a dude, and fuck Dean has to lean in and press his lips to it.

A thrill shudders up his spine and down through his limbs. It’s because this is a guy, it has to be. It’s not the same thing with girls, where you just know that that’s what you’re supposed to do with them. This, it feels… kinda wrong.

But, like…

Wrong in the way that stealing your dad’s liquor when you’re fifteen is wrong.

Wrong in the way that there’s stubble scratching his lips and his tongue, and that it doesn’t stop him.

Wrong in the way that Dean pulls this guy’s button up out of his slacks and slides his hands up the flat plane of his stomach and chest.

The guy starts pulling at Dean’s clothes then, his lips landing on Dean’s shoulder, teeth sinking into his neck, hands incredibly strong and incredibly sure of exactly what they want. He reaches down and rubs the heel of his hand against Dean’s half-hard cock.

God, that should not feel so fucking good.

Before the guy can get carried away, Dean makes sure he has a condom on him, and then kicks himself for not tossing one of those handy little packets of lube in his pocket before he left, too.

He likes being prepared, and normally he is, okay? Some chicks dig when dudes bring stuff like this into the bedroom. 

“Do you have anything,” he pants. The guy licks his lips and pulls a small squeeze bottle out of his pocket. Damn, Dean’s gotta get himself one of these. The guy is in the middle of undoing his pants when Dean grabs him by the shoulder and whips him around, pressing his chest into the wall.

“Stay there,” he nips at the guy’s earlobe, and then uncaps the lube.

He presses a slick finger into the guy and nearly loses his shit. He’s so tight and so hot--the anticipation of being inside him making his dick strain uncomfortably in his jeans. Dean sucks on a patch of the guy’s neck as he works him open. It’s a little sloppy and uncoordinated, but it’s the best he can do given the fact that he’s about seventy-five percent liquor at the moment.

“You good?” he asks after he’s gotten three fingers in and out a couple of times.

“Yes,” the man replies, breath all but stolen from his lungs. “Fuck me.”

That’s good enough for Dean. He undoes his jeans and retrieves the condom from his pocket. Rolling it on without breaking down and stroking himself is a chore, but it’s all worth it the second he starts pressing inside this guy.

He fits so snug around Dean that it makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else. The guy thrusts back against him, makes these primal, guttural noises that only dudes ever make. Dean isn’t gentle either, he knows he’s not, but the guy rolls with it. He meets every thrust of Dean’s cock, even as Dean takes the guy’s hips in both his hands and pulls him down harder, faster. His brain whites out as he tries to go harder and harder and _fuck_.

Dean bites down hard on the guy’s neck as he comes, body riding the pleasurable convulsions at full speed until they’ve subsided. He takes a few moments to rest as his and the guy’s breathing even out, and then pulls out. He tosses the condom into the trashcan and zips up his pants, turning to give this guy some excuse that he hasn’t made up yet.

Except the guy is doing the same thing, tucking his shirt back into his slacks before he too zips up and adjusts himself in the mirror.

The guy turns to Dean, gives him a smile, and then leaves.

… well. How 'bout that.

Dean glances at his reflection in the mirror. Not too disheveled, at least.

He looks over at the spot where not so long ago he was fucking a very attractive man into the wall and, pauses. Is that--Oh, wow.

Streaks of come run down the tile wall. Somehow that makes it what just happened very, very real.

He's struck then by the realization that the guy didn’t even touch himself, and neither did Dean.

**oo**

P.T. Sandover Preparatory Academy is definitely not anywhere Dean thought he would ever be working. Most of the kids here have never seen anything smaller than a twenty dollar bill, have never known life without a direct line into mommy and daddy’s bank account. The parents are even worse. They think a cool thirty-five thousand dollars a year buys their kid a brain (it does not), without which a _world-class education_ (which this is not) is essentially useless.

It’s an awful place, but it’s a suspiciously good gig for someone who hated high school so much that he dropped out. At least the staff at Sandover is more competent than that of any school Dean ever worked at _or_ attended, and it’s honestly the only reason Dean’s agreed to come back for a second year.

That, and the fact that Sam still will not let him live alone.

He’s such a fuckin’ baby about shit sometimes.

It’s exactly because of this pathetic shambles he calls a life that he spends most of his commute in his own head, buried deep inside that guy from last night. He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep his mind out of the gutter today, but, as it’s the first day of school, Dean doesn’t really have a choice.

Understandably, Dean drags ass into the teacher’s lounge, head pounding and stomach in painful knots. Whether he’s hungover from the booze or the nasty bathroom romp, he can’t say—he just knows that it’s a hangover.

Methodically, Dean signs in, pours himself a cup of coffee, and plops down at the third table on the left, where Gabe plays what looks like a violent round of Candy Crush on his phone.

He glances up at Dean and does a shit-ass job of hiding his smirk when he says, “Somebody had a good night.”

“Dude, don’t,” Dean sighs just as Charlie, resident computers teacher, slides into the seat beside him. 

“Who had a good night?” she asks, blowing across her green tea latte—a Charlie Bradbury favorite from the cafe down the street.

“No one,” Dean insists, maybe a little too harshly. Not that Dean doesn't like Charlie, because he actually likes her a lot, he just isn't in it this morning. Angus woke him up by slobbering all over his face, while Baron licked the residue of last night's sweat off of his arm. Needless to say, he's already had A Morning.

“Pretty grumpy for someone who got some ass last night,” Gabe sips his coffee pointedly.

Charlie’s mouth drops open at the mention of Dean doing anything but drinking on his couch, alone.

“Right on,” she holds her hand up for a high five. “Grumpy Gus closed some ass!”

 “I didn’t get any _ass_ last night, so just leave it,” Dean snaps. Why— _why_ did they have to say ‘ass’?

He doesn’t miss the look that Gabe and Charlie share, nor does he miss his opportunity to inform the both of them that they are, in fact, dicks.

Various other teachers cycle through on their way through their own morning routine. Some, like Jody and Donna, stop and ask Dean how he's doing, if he's ready for year number two; others, like Zachariah and Crowley, come through with as little interaction as possible. It's all well and good until a sudden chill that settles over the room. The door shuts behind Cain, school principal, renowned hard-ass, and the only person ever to have said _“I like you a lot”_ to Dean in a job interview.

“Good morning, everyone,” he greets them. There aren’t many people in the lounge this early in the morning, but they all take special precaution to avoid looking Cain in the eye as they mumble their ‘good morning’s back.

Predictably, as he pours his coffee Cain addresses, “Dean, glad to see you back for another year.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from this place.”

“Ass-kisser,” Gabe mumbles, earning him a swift kick to the shin under the table.

“He’s right,” says Cain. “You let me think you like it here so much, I’ll have you supervising after school detention.”

Dean isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh, so he clears his throat and says, “Rent don’t pay itself.”

“That’s more like it,” Cain’s eyes comb over Dean before he decides to leave it. He bids everyone a good first day and strolls right back out of the lounge.

“Wild horses?” Gabe raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothin’, Jagger,” Gabe shakes his head. “You’re acting really fuckin’ weird today, jesus.”

Okay, that’s it, “I don’t have to sit here and take your shit.”

Gabe and Charlie both hide their smiles behind their hands, and Dean pushes up and away from the table. Normally, he’s more than happy to sit with them and dick around before the day starts, but today is already not his day and he doesn't need to go inviting trouble. It’s probably best if he heads back to his office in the gym and just… meditates for a little while.

Or prays for a fuckin’ valkyrie to swoop down and take him away like one of the goddamned fallen.

He could go for some sweet eternal rest right now.

 _Shit_ , he catches himself. Redirect the feeling.

His phone buzzes with a message from Sam.

_Your meds are sitting on the counter. Do you need me to drop them off?_

Double shit.

_got my spare stash in my desk, no need. thx_

That would have been a clusterfuck and a half. He tucks his phone back into his pocket, not paying even a little bit of attention as he rounds the corner into the back halls of the school—

—right into another body.

“Shit!” he swears aloud this time, and then remembers where he is. “Not shit—I mean—”

He looks up to tell the student that he’s sorry, to watch where they’re going around blind corners like this one, only to realize it is not a student he’s run into.

They seem to recognize one another at the exact same instant.

“Ah, Dean,” Abaddon then saunters into view—vice principal, dean of students, and royal pain in everyone’s ass. “So glad you’re giving a hearty Sandover welcome to our new addition. Castiel, this is Dean Winchester, he teaches P.E. and… what was it?”

“Film studies,” Dean supplies quickly, eyes not leaving Castiel’s face. He looks about as hungover as Dean feels, though his hair isn’t any less of a wreck than it was last night.

 _Fuck_.

This is not good. This is in fact the very opposite of good. How is he supposed to explain to Abaddon that his “hearty Sandover welcome” was not in fact running into him around a corner, but brutally fucking him into a bathroom wall not even ten hours ago.

He can’t.

“Dean, Castiel is Castiel Novak, he’s our new history teacher,” Abaddon explains. “And if you’re done bowling him over, we have quite a bit more ground to cover before the day starts. Excuse us.”

She beckons Castiel along, not even allowing him to get a word in edgewise before they’re both gone.

Dean slams his hand into the nearest locker, welcoming the searing pain that shoots through his fingers. This is just… _Goddamn_ , maybe he’d get laid more often if the universe stopped taking everyone else's turn and fucking him at every opportunity.

He takes a breath and reminds himself: _meds_.

Dean will go to his office, take his meds, and then deal with the rest of the day as it comes.

 _Right_.

**oo**

The first half of the day whips by, thank god. Dean doesn’t recall the first day of school being this intense last year, but maybe now that he knows what he’s doing he knows just how much he’s doing wrong. Blessedly, he has first period off, but then a sophomore P.E. class right after, followed by his film class and then a rowdy gang of freshmen right before lunch.

It may have gone by fast, but damn was it a long morning.

Back in the teacher’s lounge, Dean pours himself another cup of coffee to give him the last little push to 3:15 that he needs and takes his lunch out of the fridge. It’s nothing too special, and nothing that Dean wants to eat, quite frankly. Sam makes him eat weird shit though, because ‘ _diet and exercise are just as important as your meds’_ and _‘you have to start taking care of yourself’_.

What the fuck does Sam know… He’s got a wife and a cushy job and a nice place. Who _wouldn’t_ want to take care of themselves to keep living that kind of life?

“Yo, Dean-o, makin' faces at your food again?” Gabriel plops down beside him. He looks at the sad Tupperware in front of Dean and raises an eyebrow, “What in the hell is that?”

“I don’t know, but I know it tastes like ass,” says Dean.

“Huh,” Gabe nods and pulls a sandwich out of what Dean now realizes is a Subway bag. “You want half of my meatball sub?”

“Fuck me, you’re a goddamned saint,” Dean sighs and happily accepts a half of Gabe’s sandwich. Gabe’s phone starts to ring just as Dean wraps his mouth around the end of the sub.

He answers, “Where the fuck is your goofy ass?”

Dean watches Gabe as his facial expressions morph flawlessly, one into the other. Sometimes Dean wonders if his face muscles are made of elastic.

“Well, get in here, you’re eating with the cool kids today.”

He hangs up and drags Dean’s Tupperware across the table. “Looks like chicken and rice.”

“’cause it is,” Dean says through a mouthful of sandwich.

Gabriel digs Dean’s fork into the rice and takes a bite. His nose wrinkles.

“Where’s the salt?”

“Exactly,” Dean rolls his eyes.

The door to the lounge opens and shuts again, and just as Dean is about to look over his shoulder he hears, “Hello, Gabriel.”

“Casanova Frankenstein,” Gabe greets and Dean chokes. “What the hell, you don’t call, you don’t write?”

“I’ve been busy,” Castiel replies, his voice much more level than it was last night. “And as I recall, you’re the one who stood me up last night.”

“Stood you up,” Gabe mutters as Castiel takes the seat beside him. Dean does not look up, and prays that Gabe will just forget he’s there. “I looked all over for you, ya mook. I figured you’d found something better to occupy your time. Got a little somethin'-somethin'? A little 'I'll have what she's having'?" Gabriel smacks the table and throws his head back, leading Lucifer to beam a napkin off the top of his head, all the way from across the lounge. 

Dean absolutely does not mean to look up at Castiel while Gabe and Lucifer get into a heated exchange, but he does. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s Castiel staring right back at him, face expressionless.

Dean swallows his mouthful of food, and greets, “Hey.”

“Whoa, sorry,” Gabe switches gears lightning quick and sits back down. “Dean, this is Cas. I tried to get him to come meet us last night, but _someone’s_ too good to hang out with his brother.”  

“Step-brother,” Castiel corrects, and Gabe throws his hands up.

“Why you gotta play me like that, man?” he asks.

“Our parents got divorced ten years ago,” Castiel frowns.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gabe throws his hands up, “I didn’t know you divorced step-siblings.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at Gabe over his sandwich.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, to be specific.

“Well, Dean here is one of the P.E. teachers—“

“I’m aware,” says Cas. “We met this morning.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

This morning.

Not last night.  

Okay, so Castiel isn’t a total dick. Dean still would rather not be sitting across from him at his workplace, while he’s trying to eat lunch, but if he acts anything other than normal, Gabe will be on his ass until he fesses up to what he did.

That’s not going to happen.

Dean stuffs the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and grabs his Tupperware from Gabe. “Sorry to dine and dash, but Benny wants to talk to me before fifth period starts.”

This, of course, sets off every single one of Gabe’s alarms, and Dean tries to get the fuck out of there before he can call him on it. Maybe if he hides in his office for the entire year, he can make it without having to remember any of what happened last night.

Ever.

“Dean!” he hears Castiel’s deep, frank voice call after him. He stops. Why does he stop? Castiel catches up to him quickly, “Dean, I want to talk to you.”

“I’m Mr. Winchester around the younglings,” Dean reminds him.

“Of course,” Castiel nods.

“What’s on your mind, Novak?” Dean asks.

“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, you and I had sex last night,” says Castiel and Dean whips around to shush him the fuck up.

“Where the hell do you think we are?” he snaps, and then grabs Castiel by the sleeve of his button-up.

This… this man can wear a shirt.

_Fuck, focus up Winchester._

He drags Castiel all the way back to his office and locks the door behind them. Arms crossed over his chest, spine straight, chest out, Dean asks (in admittedly a lower register), “What do you want?”

Castiel’s dark brows furrow and he cocks his head. “Well, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night,” he says. “But given the way you're currently conducting yourself, I’m not quite sure I want to do so anymore.”

Dean rolls his eyes and smears his hands over his face.

This is not happening.

“I also wanted to tell you that this in no way affects how I will be treating you as a coworker and peer,” says Castiel. “And I hope you feel the same way.”

“Yup,” Dean gives a curt nod. “No effect whatsoever.”

Castiel frowns again.

“Obviously,” he nods and gestures to the bare walls of Dean's tiny water closet of an office. “Your entire attitude is a shining example of that.”

Dean mutters, “ _Your_ entire attitude is a shining example of that…”

“O… kay,” Castiel shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He scans Dean with those piercing eyes and _fuck_ what’s the deal with this guy? Except then Castiel’s posture softens and he says, “I apologize. Work isn’t really the time to talk about this, and given the… well, it’s a touchy subject in the work place, and I don’t want to out you if you’re not—“

“O _ut_ me?” Dean asks, eyebrows high. “Where am I being dragged out of?”

Castiel, for the first time, looks genuinely perplexed.

“The closet?” he elaborates. “Are you not familiar with that expression?”

“I am,” Dean nods, adrenaline sending every single one of his hairs on end. “But I’m not gay, so there’s nothing to drag me out of.”

Because he's not. There's no reason why Castiel’s eyebrows should go sky high like they do.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not gay,” Dean repeats, slowly.

“Bisexual, pansexual?” Castiel suggests.

“Dude!” Dean shushes him. This is not good. _Fuck, fuck, fuc_ k, this is not good. “I don’t like guys, okay? I’m straight.”

But Castiel is standing right there, eyes narrowed and stare scrutinizing, but still as stupidly handsome as he was last night. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty certain that you had your dick in my ass last night.”

“Doesn’t mean I like guys,” Dean snaps. Just digging the hole deeper, and he doesn't even care anymore. “And I don’t wanna hear about it, okay? Last night was… what it was. And I’m past it, so…”

“Yes, you sound very past it,” Castiel nods. “I too have passed it, so there’s not much else to discuss.”

“Good,” Dean nods.

“Great,” Castiel nods back. “At any rate, it’s nice to meet you Dean.”

“Yeah, likewise, Castiel,” Dean lets him out of his office and shuts the door behind him.  

Jesus Christ, this is gonna be one hell of a year.


	2. Zero to Sixty

_“You’re an odd bird, aren’t you?”_

Castiel had been a thousand percent certain that his interview for P.T. Sandover Preparatory Academy had gone horribly. Normally ‘ _odd bird’_ isn’t complimentary, especially when referencing Castiel, but Cain is a far cry from normal, which explains why he’s chosen to people his staff with such an array of characters.

Anyone who allows Gabriel to have any modicum of control over large groups of teenagers has to have at least a couple of screws loose.

Castiel gets to campus early, much earlier than most. He likes it that way—he likes having time to himself to get ready for the day. He’s not what anyone would call a morning person, and mornings are much easier to go through when he doesn’t have to interact with anyone.

Plus, the earlier he gets here, the better parking space he can find. He’s over trying to find spaces with a wide enough berth on either side. Castiel never thought he would be one to care about things like cars, but this one caught his eye when he was an impressionable teen, and he has refused to part with it since.

He bought it without knowing a thing about cars, with most of his savings and a small loan from Gabriel. He can still remember the look on Ephraim’s face when he said the words _1970 Mustang Coupe_ , and the subsequent look on his face when he’d seen what terrible shape it was in.

Luckily, Ephraim was a good boyfriend and offered to do the work on the car that needed to be done, often only in exchange for sexual favors. Castiel didn’t mind, as long as the end game was feeling the roar of a new engine vibrating through every single atom in his body as he tore up the roads outside of Modesto, California.

Sometimes he misses the wide open spaces of his hometown.

Mostly he’s just glad he got out of there while he still could.

Castiel shoulders his laptop bag and makes the walk from the parking lot into the teacher’s lounge. The only person here so far is one of his fellow history teachers, Crowley.

That’s it.

Crowley.

No first name that Castiel can speak of, just _Crowley_. He dresses in all black and has these sharp, calculating eyes that set students and teachers alike on edge.

Needless to say, he’s a little creepy. And even if he wasn’t, neither of them are conversationalists. So, Castiel pours himself a cup of coffee and tries to get the hell out of there before the silence between them gets too awkward.

It’s not that he doesn’t like it here—it’s already his third week here and nobody has made him feel anything other than welcome—it’s a matter of not being nearly caffeinated enough to function properly. Hopefully hiding out in his classroom with nothing but a cup of coffee will set him to neutral.

Unfortunately, he forgot to lock the door behind him and ends up with an energetic Gabriel Dickinson right in his face.

“Just the man I was looking for,” he announces.

“That would explain why you came into my classroom,” says Castiel, rubbing the tension out of his temples.

“Crowley said he saw you,” Gabriel plops down at a desk and scoots the whole thing up toward Castiel. “Figured that meant you decided to bunker down before the day starts. Obviously I had to come bug you.”

“Why,” Castiel groans and thunks his head down on his desk. “Why are you like this?”

“I’ve always assumed it’s because of a loose family structure and my ADHD,” says Gabriel. “But I could be wrong.”

Castiel looks up at him, “What do you want?”

“Touchy,” Gabriel tuts and shakes his head. “I came in to say hello. I thought I’d be seeing a fuck of a lot more of you now that we work in the same goddamned place, but you’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

“I have not been avoiding you,” Castiel sighs and grabs his laptop bag off of the floor. He should get started on writing his class agendas up on the whiteboard, and he needs his planner.

“So you’ve been avoiding Dean,” Gabriel concludes and Castiel pauses.

“What makes you say that?”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, “Kiddo, we may not be _blood_ , but you’re still my brother. We’ve got brother telepathy.”

“We do not,” Castiel rolls his eyes and stands. Their parents got married when the both of them were six years old; they spent more of their lives as brothers than they did as not-brothers. Even if they were related by blood, Castiel sincerely doubts that they would have any sort of telepathic connection.

He grabs a green marker and writes _U.S. History_ in tidy letters, underlines it, and tries his best to ignore Gabriel.

“What’s with you two?” Gabriel finally asks.

“Nothing,” Castiel says a little too quickly. Because there’s nothing going on. Dean Winchester is a raging closet case with a big dick, dragging an even bigger bag of issues behind him, and Castiel can’t get caught up in that right now.

“Oh, my god, you _fucked him_ didn’t you?”

Castiel drops his marker and lets out a disproportionately loud swear.

“Holy fucking shit,” Gabriel laughs.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Castiel whips around, threatening him with the wrong side of his marker. “The last thing I need is to start off my first year in the middle of a sex scandal.”

“Dude, it’s high school, not a political campaign,” Gabriel leans forward, tilting his desk.

Castiel lets out a breath and leans back against the whiteboard.

“How was he?” asks Gabriel then. “He take a dick as well as I think he does?”

“Gabriel!” Castiel snaps.

“It’s a point of curiosity!” Gabriel declares emphatically, not unlike the way he’d grilled him when fifteen year old Castiel had come home freshly de-virginized from Ephraim’s house.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Castiel stares fixedly at Gabriel’s snarky face. “But I’ll have you know that he was not the one taking the dick.”

Gabriel lets out a low whistle.

“Didn’t know you were into that,” he says.

“One of the wonderful things about me is that I’m into most everything,” Castiel replies before he can think better of it, and Gabriel lets out a boisterous laugh. Castiel rolls his eyes yet again and returns to writing on the board, letting Gabriel gather his bearings.

“Was he any good?” he finally asks.

“Cone of silence?” Castiel still focuses on writing his agendas.

“Cone of silence,” Gabriel confirms.

“I was really, really drunk,” Castiel explains. “He fucked me in the bathroom of that bar where you stood me up. Face to the wall, quick and dirty.”

“You don’t say,” Gabriel sounds genuinely fascinated.

“Indeed,” Castiel nods. “I came so hard I thought I was going to pass out.”

“Goddamn,” Gabriel whistles again. “That’s… graphic.”

“Even more graphic when I tell you that I came without either of us even touching my cock,” Castiel pauses writing, realizes how bored he sounds describing something that’s been fuelling his masturbatory fantasies for the last two weeks.

“Wow.”

“Mm,” Castiel hums back and continues writing on the board.

“Fuck, now I don’t wanna talk to either of you,” Gabriel stands. “However, Charlie owes me twenty bucks now, so it’ll be a hoot collecting on that.”

Castiel turns, eyebrows furrowing.

“Why?”

“Dean’s a raging queer,” says Gabriel. “She thought he was so deep in the closet he’d never fucked a guy before. Turns out he’s not, and now I get to buy food that isn’t Top Ramen this week.”

He gives a celebratory pump of his fist, and Castiel crosses his arms. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.  

“Truth be told,” Gabriel drops his voice then. “He gets a little chatty when he’s plastered. I may have had some insider information before I made that bet.”

This information sets the cogs turning in Castiel’s mind. It did occur to him that Dean did seem a little too practiced for that to have been his first sexual encounter with a man, but he’d kept that notion to himself. It’s rude to out people, especially when they’re so deep in the closet that they’re embedded into the back wall.

“Has he never spoken to you about this before?” he decides to ask. “Sober, I mean.”

Gabriel shakes his head.

“Totally hetero-seeming,” he says. “I didn’t see it until I started hanging out with him, actually. He’s not very subtle with the whole eye-banging deal.”

“No kidding,” Cas nods and sets down his marker.

“Too bad you fucked him,” Gabriel lets out a tired sigh. “He’d’ve probably like you.”

“Why wouldn’t he like me now?” asks Castiel.

Gabe cups his hands over his mouth and hollers, “Because you guys fucked, dipshit!”

Castiel sighs.

“All right,” Gabriel checks his phone. “I’d better get my ass back to the music room. I told my beginning band class they’ve gotta practice for at least three hours a week, and you know those little dumbfucks won’t do it anywhere but here.”

“Charming, Gabriel.”

“Fuckin’ mouth-breathers,” he shakes his head. “No Child Left Behind my left dick.”

“Only the left one?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I need one dick free so you can suck it,” Gabriel flips him off. “I’ll catch you on the flip-flop, Brosef Stalin.”

“See you later,” Castiel picks up a blue marker for World History’s agenda.

Indeed, the curious case of Dean Winchester is one he’ll need to mull over, but later. Now he has to be a teacher. There are a couple of ninth graders from his homeroom class filtering into his room, setting down their backpacks at their respective desks before clumping together to chat.

Now it doesn’t matter if he’s ready for the day ahead, because it’s coming hurdling at him whether he likes it or not.

He has to put all thoughts of Dean Winchester to the side and focus.

And that’s exactly what he will do.

**oo**

In the twenty minutes he has between second and fourth period, Castiel decides to take a quick sabbatical in his car. If he goes to the teacher’s lounge, he’ll undoubtedly see Gabriel; if he stays in his classroom, inevitably he’ll have students or teachers coming to talk to him.

He just needs a few moments of silence to compose himself. That’s all.

So, of course when Castiel steps out of the building, he sees Dean Winchester eyeing the hell out of his car. Wordlessly, he creeps up beside him and waits to be noticed.

When it appears that Dean’s attention can’t be shaken, he iterates, “Hello, Dean.”

“Shit!” Dean jumps. “How has no one put a bell on you yet?”

“What are you looking at?” Castiel asks.

“That’s a _1970 Mustang Coupe_ ,” Dean supplies, mild awe coloring his voice. “You know who drives it?”

“Me,” Castiel simply states, earning him a laugh from Dean. When Castiel doesn’t laugh back, Dean’s face falls.

“Are you shitting me? That’s your car.”

“Yes.”

“Yours.”

“Yes, Dean, that is my car.”

Dean lets out a small chuckle, “Well, how the hell do you like that.”

Castiel cocks his head, but Dean doesn’t elaborate. He just continues assessing the car, now walking around it, taking in every last detail.

“How long you had ‘er,” he asks.

“About sixteen years?” Castiel ventures a guess. Dean whistles.

“She’s in good shape on the outside, at least,” he says, coming around to the hood of the car. “You mind if I take a look?”

“Are you always this polite to a lady before you open up her top?” Castiel asks before he can help himself. He forgets that his humor can be a little… off color sometimes.

Thankfully, Dean just smiles and rolls his eyes. He pops the hood of the car and props it open. Another low whistle.

“Just as beautiful on the inside,” he marvels. “You work on cars?”

“Oh, no,” Castiel shakes his head. “My ex-boyfriend fixed it up for me when I first bought it… and then my ex-girlfriend worked on it for me.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Ex-girlfriend?” he asks.

Castiel’s brows fall in a flat line.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel nods. “Why is that surprising?”

“Uh, do you really have to ask?”

Castiel folds his arms over his chest, “Would you believe that I’ve been with people of varying sexes and genders?”

Apparently, Castiel may have just spoken Swedish, because that’s the level of understanding that’s coming off of Dean’s face right now.

“Do you work on cars, Dean?” Castiel decides to change the subject. Fidgeting under the question about himself, Dean licks his lips and focuses back on what’s under the hood of Castiel’s car.

“My dad was a mechanic,” he says. “Taught me everything I know. Thank god, too, ‘cause I don’t trust anyone to handle my baby but me.”

He shuts the hood of the car and claps Castiel on the shoulder, steering him a couple of cars down to a sleek, black Impala.

“Oh, wow,” Castiel’s awe now replacing Dean’s. “This is so…”

“… awesome?”

“ _Hot_ ,” Castiel can’t tear his eyes away. He wants to touch it, but he knows that’s not right. It’s like picking up someone’s child without asking. “My stepdad had a cherry red ’84 Impala, but this is… what, ’66?”

“’67,” Dean corrects, and Castiel nods.

“ _Hot_ , _”_ he reconfirms.

He glances up and smiles when he sees that Dean’s cheeks have gone a peculiar shade of pink.  

Castiel has dealt with closet cases before, though never one in such vehement denial as Dean. He must be staring, because Dean suddenly falters and asks, “What?”

“It’s nice to talk to you, Dean,” is all Castiel can come up with. It’s the truth—he’s glad that Dean has an interest that somewhat correlates with one of his own. He may not know his way around the inside of a car, but when it comes to acceleration and speed and wide open highways, the faster Castiel can go, the closer he comes to flying down the road at top speed, the better.

“Do you ever race?” he asks, and Dean just blinks.

“Uh, no,” he shakes his head. "I'm not an idiot."

“Oh,” Castiel nods. “I used to race.”

Surprise further colors Dean’s face, and he holds out a hand, “Wait, ‘race’ how?”

“Street racing,” Castiel supplies and looks back up at him. Dean’s eyebrows now pinch together, and Castiel cocks his head. “Why are you making that face?”

“I’m just having a hard time imagining you doing anything that… illegal.”

Castiel lets out a laugh and settles his eyes firmly on Dean. He’s dressed in the standard gym teacher attire: white polo Sandover shirt and their cardinal red shorts, nothing like what he was wearing when Castiel first saw him.

“Man, would you stop eye fucking me?” asks Dean, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Does it fluster you?” Castiel shoots back, knowing full well by now that it absolutely does. “Personally, I’ve always had that problem. I see a nice car and I just get…” He wriggles to make a point, and revels in how Dean flushes an even deeper shade of pink.

“Nuh-nope,” Dean shakes his head. “That’s… no.”

Castiel almost opens his mouth to ask if he likes hot guys with his hot cars, but he doesn’t want to scare Dean off. With some closet cases, you can just tell—their truth lies close to the surface and it’s only a matter of time before they break through and burst free. Others, like Dean, and at one point like Castiel, have to drag themselves up through the nine levels of Hell to get out.

The bell rings, signaling the beginning of the seven minute passing period. Dean hasn’t stopped looking at Cas, appears to be too shell-shocked to move. Castiel licks his lips and comes around the side of the car to Dean.

 “I’m going to take my lunch out here in the parking lot,” he drags his gaze up and down Dean’s body in what has to be the least subtle check-out he’s ever made. “You’re welcome to join me.”

Dean’s eyes go wide.

“Have a nice fourth period, Dean,” Castiel bids and turns to walk back into the building. As soon as he’s sure he’s out of Dean’s sight, he lets out the breath he’d been holding for far too long and darts down the hall into the music room, where Gabriel is already setting up for fourth period. He motions for him to come out and talk to him, earning him a confused, albeit concerned pinch in Gabriel’s face.

He comes to the door and asks, “What’s up?”

Castiel tugs him down the hall into the staff restroom, realizing too late that he’s started to hyperventilate.

“Ah, shit,” Gabriel looks around for something, anything—and finally comes back to Cas with a tiny paper trash bag.

“What is this?” he asks. He thinks it may be for used feminine hygiene products.

“Breathe into it, fuckwit,” Gabriel replies, and Castiel does as he’s told. His breathing soon slows, enough so for him to slide down the wall and stare blankly at the ceiling above him.

“Hey,” Gabriel snaps his fingers. “What the fuck, man? We’ve got classes to teach.”

“I think I just propositioned Dean Winchester in the parking lot,” Castiel replies. “No… I know I did.”

Gabriel’s eyes bug out, “Ho-ly _shit_.”

“I know,” Castiel nods and rests his head back against the wall. And now his chest hurts and he’s sweating through his shirt. This is pathetic, but come on, _how did he just do that?_

“He say anything?” asks Gabriel.

Castiel shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest. There has to be some sort of sexual harassment policy that he’s just violated, something that will get his ass fired should Dean choose to report it.

He can’t get fired. If he has to move back to Modesto with his mom, he may as well just leap in front of a moving train right now.

His fingers itch, his skin feels too tight. Every instinct he has tells him to go back to his car, to get behind the wheel and _go_ as far as he can as fast as he can.

“Yo,” Gabriel snaps his fingers and Castiel looks up. “I know you’re all about avoiding conflict, but you got shit to do. So get up and do it.”

Castiel takes another breath. He’s right. He’s not right about a lot of things, but he’s right about this. With steeled resolve, Castiel pushes himself to his feet and gives Gabriel a smile.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Shut up,” Gabriel rolls his eyes.

**oo**

Castiel can’t even pretend he’s going to eat his lunch. His stomach is in knots, he won’t stop sweating—everything about this was a bad idea and he has no choice but to inform Dean of this and try to move on.

He passes Benny, another gym teacher, as he makes long strides back to Dean’s office to apologize, only to find the room locked. He knocks, but after a long stretch of silence it’s clear that there’s nobody inside.

 _Great_.

He’s probably hiding out in the teacher’s lounge with Gabriel. Even if Castiel wanted to eat lunch, he wouldn’t want to go into the lounge of all places and try to pretend he didn’t make a pass at Dean in broad daylight.

More than anything, he wants to drive. Though it’s not as relaxing as letting loose on the highway, being cocooned safely in his car will be enough to soothe his nerves for the rest of the day.

He fishes his keys out of his pocket as he steps into the parking lot, looking out at his car only to find Dean Winchester standing right beside it.

Castiel’s heart may explode. 

“Hello, Dean,” he gives a wary greeting. “What brings you out here?”

Dean looks like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Castiel doesn’t miss the way that his eyes skate over him, or the way his lips part, or even the slight broadening of his chest as he stands up straighter.

Oh, this poor, poor man.

“I, uh,” Dean clears his throat.

Castiel takes pity on him and offers, “Would you like to go for a ride?”

A moment and then Castiel clarifies, “In my car.”

Dean doesn’t appear to know whether to laugh or to sigh or to panic, and so ends up doing a combination of all three. He does manage to get out a, “Yeah.”

Castiel offers him what he hopes is a reassuring smile and unlocks the car. He’s not meticulous with the inside, but at least his floor isn’t littered with candy wrappers and fast food trash like Gabriel’s is.

He waits for Dean to buckle up before slides his key into the ignition and starts the car. Just for kicks, he revs the engine, delighting in the look of euphoria on Dean’s face.

“God _damn_ , that is beautiful,” he whistles.

A burst of pride swells his chest, and Castiel sits up. He comes out of the parking lot maybe a little too fast, but that weird alpha part of his male id wants to show off, wants Dean to be impressed.

As Castiel weaves in and out of the early afternoon traffic, occasionally glancing over at Dean to gauge his reaction.

“Satisfactory?” he asks.

“Hell yeah, man,” Dean chuckles, and Castiel grins.

They come to a stoplight and Castiel can finally get a good look at Dean. It’s almost as though he’s been put into a meditative state, the way his eyes slip shut and his breathing evens out. His eyes flit down to where Dean’s hand rests against his thigh, where his thumb strokes along the fabric of his ridiculous red shorts.

Castiel licks his lips, effervescent arousal spreading through his abdomen, and reaches over to stroke the back of a finger over his forearm. Dean sucks in a shaky breath and Castiel asks, “Should I pull over?”

Dean nods.

Castiel makes a right as soon as he can and rolls to a stop on an empty side street. He shuts off the car and turns to Dean, taking note of how Dean runs his hand up and down his own thigh.

Carefully, Castiel moves to mimic the touch and eventually ends up batting Dean’s hand away. The fabric of his gym shorts strains around his hardening cock, but rather than pull away and tell Castiel to stop, he thrusts up into nothing.

Just to make sure, Castiel asks, “Is this okay?”

Dean looks over at him, eyes already hazy with lust, and swallows.

“This is just between us?”

Castiel nods, “Of course.”

“Then yeah,” Dean shuts his eyes again

He lets out another shaky breath and a soft sigh when Castiel cups his hand over his erection and presses gently against it.

They don’t have a lot of time, and if Castiel does what he wants to do they run the very serious possibility of being back late, even if they are only a couple of blocks from school.

He has to make this count.

Castiel dips his hand into Dean’s shorts and down past his underwear, over fleshy parts of his stomach, the parts that cushion the solid muscles underneath. He wraps his hand around Dean’s cock and pulls him all the way out.

He makes a noise that Castiel would not mind hearing again.

“Does that feel nice?” he asks, and Dean wastes no time before he nods. Encouraged enough to keep going, Castiel sets a deliberate, even pace. Dean is rock hard in his hand, a drool of precome leaking out of the tip and down his shaft.

It is one of the nicer cocks that Castiel can recall handling. Until now they hadn’t been formally introduced—all Castiel had to go on as far as a description was _‘feels good in ass’._  Not exactly a specific classification, to say the least.

He licks his lips and picks up the speed of his hand, just a little bit.

Dean tenses, but not in the intended way, so Castiel shifts a little closer and murmurs to him, “Do you think your cock tastes as good as it feels in my hand?”

The whine that tears out of Dean’s throat is unholy, and Castiel’s grin broadens.

He swipes his thumb through the moisture drooling out of Dean’s slit and brings it to his mouth. Dean opens his eyes just in time to see Castiel suck his thumb clean.

“Holy fuck,” Dean’s voice breaks, and Castiel comes forward to press his lips to his jaw. Dean looks over at him and blinks a few times, which makes Castiel smile. He then bends over and sucks the tip of Dean's cock in between his lips.

Just for a few seconds before he pops it out again.

He glances up at Dean and gives him a smile before ducking back down again. He gets more in his mouth this time and starts to pump his mouth faster and faster. He's good at giving head and he knows it. And now Dean knows it too. 

Dean does taste very good, he doesn’t mind noting, enough that he’s salivating all over his hand every time he comes down. Fingers tangle in his hair and tug, coaxing a loud whimper out of Castiel's throat and down through Dean's cock.

Dean’s thighs go taut, and Castiel hears his breath coming out in hurried, desperate pants. He finishes him off sooner than he would have liked, but they do have to get back. Dean tries to warn him, but Castiel stays on sucks every last pulse of come that shoots onto his tongue and down his throat.

Castiel sits up and runs his fingers through his hair, letting out a soft breath of satisfaction.

He grins at Dean, who looks as though he’s disconnected entirely from reality. He’s hard in his slacks, but he doesn’t have time to finish himself if they’re going to be back in time.

The car revs back up and Dean lets out a groan.

“I knew cars got you all hot and bothered too,” Castiel grins.

Dean makes a noise somewhere between laughter and hyperventilating, gathering his bearings just enough to slip his shorts back up over his hips and let out a sigh.

Castiel shifts as he turns back out onto the main street, hoping his erection will go down before they get back to school.

He certainly doesn’t expect a hand to close over the outline of his erection and knead softly into it. His knuckles go white as he grips onto the steering wheel, and he can’t look at Dean.

He can’t.

Not when Dean undoes his belt and slacks with one hand and pulls his cock out with staggering accuracy. Dean’s hand is big, fits around him so perfectly that it’s all he can do to keep his eyes on the road.

Dean’s hand works fast, faster than Castiel would ever do to himself (unless he was pressed for time). Dean waits until they stop at another light to finish him off, which is good because that orgasm hit him hard. He shuts his eyes and bucks up into Dean’s fist, praying that he doesn’t get a mess all over his work clothes.

That would not be ideal.

He’s jolted out of his daze by a horn honking, informing him that the light has too long been green and that he needs to move.

 Castiel wriggles back into his slacks and starts to drive again. He’ll have to wait to button back up again, but that’s okay, because he doesn’t think he could focus on more than one thing right now anyway.

They pull back into the parking lot just as the first warning bell rings. Castiel buttons up his pants and looks over at Dean, but Dean isn’t looking back at him. He looks like he’s searching for something to say, but nothing comes out. Instead, he waits to move until Castiel to get out of the car.

They don’t even get a chance to work out who should go in which door or how long they should wait before going in the building. At that moment, Lucifer Bishop, the environmental science teacher, steps out of the building and into the parking lot, ready to leave for the day. Over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses, he raises an eyebrow at the both of them and ends up smirking as he walks by.

“Have a nice afternoon, gentlemen,” he bids and strides right by them.

“Jesus,” Dean mutters and stalks off toward the building.

Just to be a pain, Castiel lets himself smile and call, “See you later, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean sticks both middle fingers high above his head before kicking open one of the doors and disappearing inside the building. Castiel leans against the side of his car and rubs his hands over his face.

And now he has to go teach his last class of the day without letting on that he got a handjob _and_ gave a blowjob during lunch. He grabs a pack of mints out of the back of his car and pops a few into his mouth.

All that's left to do is wipe the stupid smile off his face and hope for the best.


	3. The Fight was Fixed

Fuck Castiel Novak.

But also, _Fuck Castiel Novak._

He knew he got off easy, having such a good first year at Sandover, and now whatever angry god is up there is punishing him. Not that Dean believes in any kind of gods, malignant or benevolent. Like most people, he simply ascribes the unexplainable to some supernatural omniscient being because it’s much easier than accepting the reality of the situation:

The universe is random and impartial, and the fact that Dean shoulders as much shit as he does is completely without reason.

He doesn’t believe in luck either, but goddamn it, _some people have all the luck._

The bleachers are the only place he can get a little peace and quiet these days, the only place where he’s away from the watchful eye of his brother, the scrutinizing glare of Abaddon, the curious pestering of Charlie and Gabe, the knowing, soul crushing stare of Castiel Novak.

_Fucking Castiel Novak._

Dean tanks his game of Bejeweled Blitz on level fucking thirty, and now he has to go all the way back to one.

Fuck this game, fuck this day, fuck everything.

He flips back to his home screen and stares down the red bubble in the corner of his Messages icon.

Two missed voicemails: one from the pharmacy and one from Sam, both about the same thing. If he doesn’t listen to them, they’re not there. The irritated edge in the pharmacist’s voice when she asks why he hasn’t picked up his prescription in over a week; Sam calling to hound him about running out of meds this morning. He had enough for today, and he totally… totally planned on making the pickup after work today.

Totally.

Dean slips his phone back into his pocket and rubs his hands over his face. He hasn’t forgotten, he’s just been busy. People think gym teachers have it easy, since it requires _no academic skill_ , but it’s a different type of work entirely. Benny and Dorothy and Jo? They’re some of the smartest people Dean’s ever met. Hell, the smartest Dean’s ever felt has been working with them, and damn it, they need him.

Jo is the hot young teacher, one that Dean would’ve killed for in high school, who runs with her kids, plays with her kids, bonds with her kids; Dorothy’s the hard-ass who’ll send a kid to run laps if she catches one goofing off; Benny’s the coach, the one who pushes his kids harder than they knew they could go, who cheers for the effort they put in before he cheers the result itself.

“Hey, Mr. Winchester!”

Dean looks up and sees Kevin Tran, one of his students from last year, jog over to him.

“Hey, Kev,” Dean holds out a hand, and Kevin claps it in a greeting. “Shouldn’t you be eating?”

Dean? In some strange turn of events, Dean found out he was good at something useful.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Kevin crosses his arms over his chest.

Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, and he pats the cold metal bleacher beside him.

“Come on up, talk to me.”

He’s what Jo calls _laid back_ , what Dorothy calls a _pushover_ , and what Benny calls _encouraging_.

Kevin only barely hesitates before he begins, “So I know junior year is when stuff really starts to get difficult, but--”

It turns out that Dean is the confidant. Dean barely made it through his own adolescence, and by no means did so unscathed--why would anyone want to tell him anything, let alone want him advise them?  

He tugs at the beige sleeves on both of his wrists, for the moment  the only things separating decent society from the colorful tattoos that run up both of his forearms and clears his throat. Cain didn’t mind the body art, but the parents at this school are psychotic when it comes to ‘a clean, professional faculty’.

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean’s attention snaps back up to Kevin. Right.

Junior year. Extracurriculars. Athletics.

“Just go out for a team,” Dean supplies.

“I don’t have the time to commit to a whole team,” Kevin’s voice edges on panicked. “AP English Language, AP Calculus, AP U.S. History, AP Chemistry… I’m toast as it is!”

“Okay, okay,” Dean placates as he racks his brain. “Well, if you don’t wanna try out for a team, we got fitness club, hiking club, football club--”

“That’s fantasy football club,” Kevin’s brow furrows, and looks at the three fingers he’s ticked off.

“Well, that explains a hell of a lot,” he says and retracts his third finger.

Kevin chuckles and leans forward on his legs.

“I like running,” he says.

“That’s unfortunate,” Dean wrinkles his nose, and Kevin looks over at him.

“Dude, you teach P.E.,” he states.

“Doesn’t mean running’s not the worst,” Dean makes a sour face and shakes his head.

“Then why make your students do it?” Kevin raises an eyebrow.

“Eh,” Dean considers, thinking for a moment before he decides, “‘cause I’m a sadist, ‘cause I’m training warriors for the zombie apocalypse, ‘cause I love screaming myself hoarse at your lazy asses. Take your pick.”

“Which is the truth?” asks Kevin.

“None of the above,” Dean replies. “We’re required to make sure everyone gets a certain amount of exercise so we’re not accused of veal farming again.”

He laughs with Kevin and, damn, he kind of likes being the confidant. He’d take this over being the hard-ass anyway.

“Hey, man,” Dean finally suggests, “this school’s short a running club. You should start one.”

“Yeah?” Kevin perks up.

“Yeah,” Dean grins. “And hey, you wanna talk about what looks good on a college application, starting your own club is pretty impressive.”

“Would you be a club sponsor?” Kevin turns fully to him now. Aw, damn. That’s teacher 101: never suggest a club to an excited kid if you’re not prepared to sponsor.

And Kevin’s got this face that makes Dean take a breath and agree, “Yeah. Go get the forms from the office and I’ll sign ‘em.”

“Thanks, Mr. Winchester!” Kevin exclaims.

“Hey, you’re responsible for finding the other sponsor,” Dean warns as Kevin shoots up and starts running back toward the locker rooms, showing off.

“Second sponsors are optional!” Kevin calls back a reminder, and Dean smacks his hand against the bleacher.

If Kevin finds twenty kids who like running enough to sign a club petition, Dean just royally fucked himself into extra work.

But the kid looked so fucking happy. Dean doesn’t have the heart to feel anything but warmed by the interaction.

**oo**

There’s a knock on his office door, despite the fact that it’s open. Dean looks up to find Charlie standing there, thick-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose, her neat, professional blue shirt unbuttoned to reveal the well-worn Harley Quinn t-shirt underneath.

“What’s up, Chuck?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing much,” she glances around at the walls of Dean’s office. “Still pretty plain in here, huh?”

Dean looks up from folding his red Sandover shorts, already in his after-work jeans, and says, “I asked, I’m not allowed to put up cheesecake posters.”

“Well, The Man is always out to get us down somehow,” she hooks her thumbs into the belt loops of her snazzy black work pants. “Seriously, you’re the film teacher too. Get a _Raiders_ poster, some Star Wars memorabilia.”

“You know this is my office, not yours, right?” Dean offers her a smile. “You come in here just to give me decorating tips?”

“Believe it or not, no,” she steps forward. “Look, it’s Friday night, we’re officially one month in, come out and celebrate. That revival theater is doing a double feature tonight and Gabe and I really wanna go.”

Of course.

“So, if Gabe’s going, Castiel is going,” he concludes.

Charlie rolls her eyes, “He’s invited, but that doesn’t mean he’ll go. I mean, you’ve seen him. Not much of a social guy, is he?”

Dean heaves a sigh and tugs off his tattoo jackets, welcoming the rush of fresh air to his skin.

Of course, that would be when Kevin Tran decides to drop in with his running club junk.

“Whoa,” his eyes bug out. “Don’t you worry about Hepatitis?”

“Gimme that,” Dean snatches the forms out of Kevin’s hands and looks them over.

“Starting a new club?” Charlie asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Kevin nods, finally pulling his eyes away from Dean’s arms. “You wouldn’t be interested in being a second sponsor for running club, would you?”

“I wish I could,” she says, not in the least bit disappointed. “I already sponsor computer club and GSA. Though, we are petitioning to have it switched to QSA.”

“What’s that?” asks Kevin.

“Queer-Straight Alliance,” she explains. “That way it’s more inclusive, for people who wouldn’t necessarily identify as ‘gay’, which is a heck of a lot of the queer community.”  

Dean does not miss the least-subtle glance Charlie has ever given him, and he has to sit down so Kevin can’t see how red his face is. He needs to chill--Charlie thinks everyone’s queer.

“What’re your tattoos, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean looks up only to find Kevin staring intently at his arms as he fills out his section on the club form.

“Are they people you know?”

Dean doesn’t like talking about his tattoos. He doesn’t like reminding himself of why they’re there in the first place.

“Right one’s the archangel Michael,” Dean turns over his arm, hoping Kevin won’t notice the scars under the intricate detail of Michael’s attack stance. “Left one’s the Aquarius chick or whatever.”

“‘Or whatever’ is pretty cavalier for a tattoo,” says Kevin. “That’s like a full lady on your arm.”

“Yeah, Kevin,” Dean nods. “I see it every day, I know what it is.”

“She looks nice,” Kevin mentions.

“That’s because she’s not real, and doesn’t have to listen to whatever the hell this is that you’re doing.”

“Making friendly conversation about your amazing body art?” Charlie offers.

“Hey,” Dean glances sharply at her. “Can it, peanut gallery.”

“Sorry, Mr. Winchester,” Kevin’s shoulders roll in on themselves. Aw… aw, damn it. “I didn’t mean to pry, if they’re personal or anything like that.”

Son of a bitch.

“No, man,” Dean waves it off. “I’m just not supposed to have ‘em, technically. Parents get pretty anal about that kinda thing around here, last thing I need is to get the boot ‘cause I got a lady pourin’ water down my arm.”

He hands the forms back to Kevin, all signed and ready to go, and looks back to Charlie.

“What’s the double feature?” he asks, and Charlie grins.

“ _The Omen_ and _The Exorcist_.”

Dean heaves a sigh.

“Fine, I’ll go,” he mutters. “But only because I’ll be filming your reactions and putting them on Youtube later.”

Charlie lets out a victorious ‘woop!’ and holds her hand up for a high-five, not from Dean but from Kevin.

“Come on,” she encourages him. “Getting Mr. Winchester out of his house!”

“Man, come on,” Dean groans, and smacks his forehead on his desk when Kevin actually returns the high-five.

It’s saying a lot when going to the pharmacy counts as a relief from the duress of his day.

“Winchester, Winchester,” the pharmacy technician scrolls through the database. “Just got the two for you? Looks like the fluoxetine and the diazepam.”

“That’s me,” Dean nods and rubs his eyes. He’s been out of valium for weeks now. Normally he’s good at taking them as needed, like his doctor said, but it’s been harder and harder to sleep when he knows he’s going to have to see Castiel Novak every day at work.

You never shit where you eat; that’s what dad always said.

“All right, here you go,” says the technician. Dean goes through the motions of signing and paying for his meds and waves goodbye to the pharmacists before he stalks out of the drugstore as soon as possible. He hops into his car and drives the rest of the way home.

Charlie said the first movie starts at eight, so he’ll need to be at the theater by seven-thirty probably. He knows they probably won’t sell out, but with the rise of the hipster crowd and their ironic love for everything retro you can never be too sure.

Jess is already home when Dean walks through the door, curled up on the couch in the living room with her feet propped up on the coffee table, Baron draped across her lap, and something mindless going on the TV.

“Hey,” he greets, only to get nearly pummeled back by Angus not a second later.

Jess gives him a smile back and scoots to make more out of the ample room left on the couch. “Come on, this episode of _Say Yes to the Dress_ just started.”

Dean lets out a laugh as he looks through the mail, “No thanks, I think I’ll retain my testosterone.”

“Well, if you’re worried it’ll suck your balls up into your body and turn them to ovaries, I think you’re safe,” Jess replies and glances over her shoulder. “Come on, I know you love this shit.”

Dean does find the show mildly entertaining, if only because he can just turn his brain off and watch. He can do the same thing with most any specialized reality TV show, though. Put it on _Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives_ and he’s conked out before the first commercial break.

He shudders, wondering what dad would say.

Dad would probably have a lot of choice words for him, now that he thinks about it, regarding just about every aspect of his life at present. Instead he focuses on what his mom would say.

Mom says watch what makes you happy, even if it is about spoiled brides-to-be shopping for exorbitantly-priced wedding dresses.

Dean toes off his tennis shoes, grabs a beer, and plops down on the couch. Angus hops up beside him, convinced he’s small enough to be a lapdog, and Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not. He rests his hand on top of Angus’ broad skull and rubs him behind the ears, happy to be home, away from work and half-buried by a delusional dog.

“Hey,” Jess says at the first commercial break. “You wanna see if Sam will grab Thai food on the way home?”

Dean’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast this morning, but Thai food doesn’t really appeal to his palate right now. Right now, he’d kill for a good rib-sticking meal. Steak and potatoes, or big beef ribs smothered in barbeque sauce, or a double cheeseburger.

Another rumble. Sam’s restriction on the red meat is really starting to wear thin.

“I’m actually going out tonight,” Dean decides to say. He’ll pay cash and just get one of those monstrous burritos from down the street, so Sam can’t snoop around and catch it on a card transaction.

He is sneaking food behind a twenty-seven year old’s back. Granted, Sam is a giant and now a lawyer with two years experience under his belt, and so is, technically, the more threatening of the two of them.

“Hello,” Jess waves a hand in front of his face, bringing him back to earth. “I asked, on a date?”

“Oh, no,” Dean shakes his head. “Goin’ out with Gabe and Charlie. We made it through the first month, we’re gonna go celebrate.”

“Good!” Jess chirps. “I’m glad. You have fun with them.”

He’d punch anyone else who said they were glad for him, but this is Jess. Jess isn’t condescending or patronizing when she says it. She teaches first grade, for fuck’s sake, she’s like the opposite of patronizing.

“In that case,” she begins. “That means Sam and I will be all on our own. I have some intimate shaving to do.”

“Gross,” Dean groans, and swats Jess’ hand away when she tries to pat him on the shoulder.

He finishes his beer, channel surfs for the better part of twenty minutes, and ends up falling asleep right there.

Dean only wakes up when his phone vibrates in his pocket. There’s a message from Gabe detailing the directions to the theater. Dean knows how to get there, wonders why Gabe would even presume that he didn’t, only to realize this is a group text.

‘ _Thank you, Gabriel_ ,’ comes up under a foreign number.

Dean slides out from underneath Angus and sways to his feet, stretching his arms high above his head.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Dean startles and whirls around. Sam stands in the kitchen, beer in hand and work clothes rumpled--a customary heralding of the weekend’s arrival.

“Jess says you’re out tonight,” Sam doesn’t bother allowing Dean to respond.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “And I picked up my meds, so don’t worry your prissy little head about it.”

Sam tries to hide the smug look on his face as he returns his attention to looking through the mail. Most of it was for him or Jess, anyway.

His phone vibrates again, this time with that same foreign number. It’s just a message between the two of them now.

‘ _Is this Dean?_ ’

Dean rolls his eyes and texts back, _‘this has gotta be cas’._

_‘Your keen powers of perception are unmatched. May I add your number into my phone?’_

Dean sighs, ignoring the watchful eye of his little brother, and replies, ‘ _yeh go for it, you might as well_ ’.

He erases that last part, liking the succinctness that comes with ‘go for it’ much better.

“Date?” asks Sam.

“No, it’s not a date!” Dean doesn’t mean to snap, leading Sam to don that wounded puppy face. Great, like Dean needed anymore of a reason to feel like shit. “We’re going to the movies--a _group_ of us are going to the movies. Y’know, ‘cause teachers fraternize sometimes?”

“So I’ve been told,” Sam’s smile stretches a little too wide. Dean rolls his eyes, deciding it’s better to drop the conversation entirely than to sit here and argue with one of the world’s smuggest motherfuckers.

Dean heads back to his room to change. Nothing fancy, just a clean shirt that doesn’t have a big red ‘Sandover Prep’ embroidered over the breast pocket.

He’s suddenly very aware of how strange he looks in just a t-shirt, and rifles through his closet to find something to wear over it. One shirt is too snug in the arms, another’s sleeves are too long. There are several shirts with stains on them that Sam and Jess have both insisted he gets rid of, but they’re just so damn comfy Dean can’t bring himself to part ways with them.

Another message, which Dean doesn’t read because the time on the screen indicates that he’s running late. He grabs a plain black shirt and slides it over his arms, struggling to simultaneously shove his feet into a pair of boots. With his wallet and keys still in his pockets, Dean rushes out to the front door.

“Hey, Dean,” says Sam.

Dean turns back, “What?”

“Come home late,” Sam leans forward on the counter and raises his eyebrows. “Wee small hours, if you can.”

Dean frowns, about to ask Sam just what the hell he’s talking about, when he realizes.

“Aw,” he pulls a face. “Yeah, sure thing, Sammy. Bang your wife all night long, I’ll come back late. Or possibly never.”

Sam whips off his tie and beams, “You’re the best.”

Dean grimaces and gets the hell out of dodge as fast as he can. He’s grateful that Sammy’s happy, and even more grateful that he’s finally starting to ease up on Dean and starting to enjoy his own life again. That was the worst part of the whole ordeal, by and large: Sam stopped everything to help his big brother get back on track.

He navigates the treacherous streets of Los Angeles in hopes that he’ll at least get to grab some popcorn before the movie starts. Falling asleep sort of put a wrench in the whole pre-flick burrito bomb.

By the time he gets to the theater, it’s barely five minutes until showtime. Dean drags himself to the ticket booth and says, “One for the Exorcist/Omen showing.”

The attendant stares at Dean like he just blew a spitwad into her hair.

“Sir,” she begins, tired, “ _Friday Fright Film Series_  doesn’t start until October.”

A figure beside him comes up and says, “He’s here for _Clash of the Titans_.”

Oh, fucking Christ. Castiel would have to show up right at the same time, wouldn’t he?

The attendant just raises an eyebrow at the both of them and points a bored finger up at the billboard.

“What does that sign say?”

Dean and Castiel both read at once, “ _It Happened One Night_.”

“Can you guess what I’m selling tickets for?” she asks, and continues in her monotone, “If neither of you are interested in this classic love story that has proven year after year to have stood the test of time, I suggest you step to the side and let everyone else get on with their lives.”

Dean glances over at Castiel, who still stares at the woman with an indecipherable look on his face, and finally grabs him by the jacket to pull him aside. He fishes his phone out of his pocket only to see that there are two texts, one from Gabe and one from Charlie, both of which communicate the same thing:

Something came up, can’t make the movie tonight.

Those _bastards._

“Well,” says Castiel. “I think it’s fair to assume that we’ve been duped.”

“Yeah, no shit, Cas,” Dean clips back. “Fuckin’ dicks.”

“I’m assuming you do not want to see _It Happened One Night_ , then,” Castiel stuffs his hands in his sweater pockets. It’s a different look than Dean has seen on him thus far. He wears nothing put button-ups and slacks to work, and was for some reason in similar attire when they met (a month ago). Tonight he’s opted for jeans and sneakers, capped by a bright red pullover hoodie that reads ‘ _Cornell Big Red_ ’.

Christ.

“No, I do not want to see _It Happened One Night_ ,” he finally remembers to say. “So, I’m gonna bounce.”

“Would you like to watch a movie at my apartment?” Castiel offers, and Dean whips around, getting entirely too close to him, he knows, but goddamnit who does this guy think he is?

“What exactly do you think is happening here?” he asks.

“That I would like to watch a movie and that you might want to watch one too?” Cas raises an eyebrow, confused.

“Rhetorical question, dick,” Dean snaps, and then drops his voice. “What, you think we’re dating or something? Just ‘cause I’ve had my hand on your dick?”

“Rest assured, I do not casually date any longer, Dean,” Castiel returns, voice level and aura nothing but calm. “And even if I did, I’m sure I could find someone who’s at the very least learned the value of courtesy.”

Dean heaves a sigh and looks up at the deep purple, not-quite-black void. The city lights flood the sky, rendering most stars invisible. If Dean looks closely, he can see one or two, but not enough to put him at ease.

Attention back to Cas, he can see that neither of them have moved. Dean lets another impatient breath escape his lips, and he asks, “You got any good movies?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow once more, scanning over Dean in a way that simultaneously makes his gut drop and makes him want to push this stupid handsome dickhead into the street and run for his life.

“I have a few DVDs,” he says, “But I also have a bunch of movie channels that I’ve yet to explore.”

Dean gnaws at the inside of his cheek. He shouldn’t want to go. He should thank Cas, tell him he’s not interested, and turn right back to his car and go home.

Except then he remembers that Jess mentioned intimate shaving and Sam told him to come home late, so yeah, he’s kind of screwed out of going home anyway.

“If it at all influences your decision, I promise to keep my hands to myself,” Castiel adds.

“Fine,” Dean grouses out.

“I’m not going to force you,” Castiel says lightly. “If you don’t want to come, don’t come.”

Why does he have to keep saying come.

“No, I,” Dean scrubs his fingers through his hair. “I want to.”

He doesn’t mean for the words to come out so softly, and by the looks of it neither does Castiel. They both stand on the sidewalk, shifting their weight and trying not to make the situation any more awkward than it is.

Castiel is the first to break the silence, asking, “Do you intentionally lower your voice on a regular basis, or do you think a higher register makes you seem less threatening?”

Dean shoots him a dirty look, accompanied with a, “Shut up.”

He turns to walk back to his car, only to realize Castiel is beside him. Dean raises his eyebrows, “Where’d you park?”

“I didn’t,” Castiel supplies. “I only live about a mile and a half from here and it was too nice of a night not to walk.”

Dean nods, though he doesn’t understand why anyone would choose to walk anywhere when they had such a sweet ride at their beck and call at all times. Just the thought of being back inside Castiel’s car makes Dean’s insides squirm.

“Plus,” Castiel smiles now. “I do believe you owe me a ride.”

Every single apeman part of Dean’s brain kicks into overdrive, tells him to pin this fucker down and mount him like he’s the goddamned king of the jungle taking one of the pride’s many lionesses.

Except Castiel isn’t a lioness, and Dean can barely lead a class, let alone a whole pride of lions.

“Um,” Dean enunciates. “Sorry, yeah. C’mon.”

They head back to where Baby’s parked, and feels his spine go rigid when Castiel’s breath comes right out of him. Neither speaks as they get in, though Castiel does get a big grin on his face when Dean revs Baby’s engine.

He vaguely notes how much easier it would be to jerk off Cas from this side, as he had to bend and twist from the passenger’s seat in--

No.

Nope, we’re not thinking about this, Dean reminds himself.

He follows Castiel’s simple instructions, and soon they’re at an apartment tucked away in the side streets of Westwood. It’s mostly college students who inhabit these parts, but somehow Castiel managed to worm his way into a lease.

Why does Dean suspect Gabe had something to do with that?

Castiel lives on the second floor of a beige building, surrounded by many other buildings of similar drabness. Not that Dean can argue that his place with Sam and Jess is any better, but at least the inside of their place has homey touches. As soon as he steps into Cas’ apartment, he’s led to believe that either this man is some sort of zen hippie that doesn’t believe in the worth of material possessions, or a serial murderer.

“I just moved in right before school started,” Castiel explains. “I haven’t had a chance to unpack much.”

There are a few things here and there--a couch and a TV, a bookcase and a bed.

Oh.

“Studio apartment,” Dean nods. “Nice.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel gives a slight smile. And it’s not as though the place is completely bare. There are some pictures and knick-knacks here and there, though they all seem to have one recurring theme.

“Why is your apartment covered in roosters?” he asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Because, as I’m sure you’re aware, my brother is a moron,” Castiel sighs from his kitchen. “And because he has a compulsive thrifting problem and an unquenchable desire to irritate me, he enjoys bringing me rooster-themed memorabilia.”

“Compulsive thrifting problem?” Dean repeats, fingers tentatively stroking over a white ceramic rooster on top of the bookcase.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “That would be why he constantly looks like he just tumbled out of 1975. Would you like a beer?”

Dean perks up at the offer. “Uh, sure. What’ve you got?”

“Let’s see,” Castiel opens his fridge and crouches down in front of the bottom shelf. “I have Negra Modelo, Sierra Nevada, and Red Stripe.”

“Gimme a Modelo,” Dean wrinkles his nose. Castiel does just this, taking a Red Stripe for himself.

“You can sit and turn on the TV,” he says. “Would you like some popcorn?”

Just as Dean is about to open his mouth to decline, his stomach gives the most insistent rumble it’s churned out all day. Castiel cocks his head and adds, “Or perhaps something more substantial?”

“Ah, man, it’s cool,” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t wanna eat your food.”

“Dean, I’m offering,” says Cas. “Sit down, I have some meatloaf I can heat up.”

“I…” Dean’s fingernails slide under the label on his bottle. “Do you cook?”

He looks up just in time to see Castiel pull a pre-packaged slab of meatloaf out of his fridge.

“I can,” Castiel replies as he cuts a few slats in the plastic film covering. “It doesn’t mean I should, by any means. Unless you’re a fan of blackened and charred everything.”

Dean affords a small laugh at that, and Castiel tells him one last time to _just sit already._

He does as he’s told, and after a quick remote control tutorial is left to scroll through the extensive guide offered to him.

“Dude! _Fast Times at Ridgemont High_ starts in two minutes,” he turns to look at Castiel. “You ever seen that?”

“I have,” Castiel returns with a smile. “We can watch that if you like.”

Dean hops to it a little too quickly, and pauses until Cas has joined him on the couch. He carries a set of mismatched plates, each displaying identical meatloaf slices, and a pair of forks.

“Thanks,” Dean accepts the food and tries very hard not to wolf it down too fast. They start the movie and, okay, it’s kind of strange how easy it is to fall into hanging out with Castiel. Mostly, Dean doesn’t fall into hanging out with anyone. People are often irritating and more superfluous than they’d like to believe themselves. Maybe it’s because Castiel appears to share a similar mentality that this is working so surprisingly well.

As they finish their food and beers, Castiel clears their plates and replaces their empty bottles with new ones. Two beers down and a pile of meatloaf in his stomach, and Dean is completely thrown off by what he should’ve fucking remembered was coming.

Phoebe Cates: All around hottie, subject of many a late night masturbatory fantasy, particularly in this scene. She comes out of the pool dripping wet, that ‘come fuck me’ look written all over her face as she says to Judge Reinhold, _“Hi, Brad. You know cute I always thought you were”_. She saunters and undoes her bikini top, and of course that’s just standard straight boy spank bank fodder. Dean can feel himself getting a little too excited, can feel his jeans start to get tight in really inappropriate places.

He tries to push the thoughts out of his head, will his blood somewhere, anywhere, but there. He can’t get a boner on Castiel’s couch. He just can’t.

Except Dean is lost to the world, his douchebag brain hijacking the soft curves and long hair of his former fantasy for blue eyes and an inappropriately tight speedo.

Fantasy Cas pulls himself up out of a pool, Phoebe-style, and gives this salacious look that has Dean’s mouth run dry.

_Hi, Dean. You know how hot I always thought you were._

Dean’s cheeks color, because instead of bare tits he gets an eyeful of Fantasy Cas’ dick, hard and peaking out of his swimsuit. Fantasy Cas then grabs Fantasy Dean’s hand presses it to his erection.

_See how hard you make me, Dean? Do you, Dean? Dean._

“Dean!”

Dean snaps out of what has to be one of his most inappropriate fantasies to date, only to find that he’s hard.

Really hard.

“Um,” Dean clears his throat.

“You can jerk off,” Cas shrugs, still nursing his beer. “I don’t mind.”

“Here?” Dean hears his voice break.

“Why not?” Cas glances over. His cheeks are bright pink, just as they were the night they met.

“Nothing,” Dean shifts, looking back at the TV. “It’s only the beginning to every bad gay porno ever made.”

“Dean, I have had your dick in two orifices now,” Castiel points out. “You masturbating on my couch certainly won’t make this relationship any stranger than it already is.”

Dean’s nose wrinkles at the word relationship, but that Fantasy Cas is back in his brain, sucking on his neck, rolling their hips together. Fantasy Cas kisses him, and that’s what does Real Dean in. A fucked ending to a fucked day, but whatever. He’ll deal with it when he deals with it. Right now, he’s got a boner that’s begging for a fist to fuck and a fantasy coworker that’d do just about anything to him.

Dean unbuttons his jeans and pulls himself out, cock jumping with relief at being freed from its confines. He wraps a hand around himself and sighs. That’s more like it.

Even though he’s aware that Castiel can see everything he’s doing, he’s had just enough to drink that he knows but doesn’t care. At one point he even glances over and sees Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye, though he keeps his body facing forward.

And maybe because it’s in Dean’s nature to be a pain in the ass, he reaches up to spit on his fingertips before he goes back to touching, teasing the head of his dick with wet, feather-light teases.

Castiel, Real Castiel, lets out a strangled groan. Dean looks over and sees that he, too, is hard in his jeans, though unlike Dean is keeping his hands off himself.

Dean clears his throat.

“You should do it too,” he suggests, if only to see the color drain from Castiel’s face. “You did say you’d keep your hands to yourself.”

Castiel lets out this soft noise that Dean wants to hear again and again.

“It feels good,” Dean spreads himself out a little more, sort of digging the effect this is obviously having on Cas. He’s sick. He’s so fucking sick, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to see Cas come apart like he did the other day, and he wants to know he’s partially responsible.

At which point Dean flashes back to Cas splattering come all over his hand, and subsequently loses it. Dean arches his back off of the couch, keeping tight in his chest any noise that threatens to sneak out.

There are only a few seconds he’s granted to come out of his haze before he feels a sharp prod against his shoulder.

In one hand, Castiel offers Dean a box of tissues. With the other hand, he palms the tip of his cock, slow and steady. Dean accepts the tissues and swipes up the remnants of his mess, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Cas.

It’s lewd, just shy of offensively obscene. The way Cas’ lips part when he touches himself just right, the way his nimble wrist flicks as his strokes pick up their pace. Cas isn’t as silent as Dean, and vocalizes every single ounce of pleasure he’s getting from this.

Just when Dean thinks Cas has done himself in, he stops, shaking the cramp out of his wrist. How--how do you stop when you’re _that fucking close?_

Then Cas looks over at him, eyes black and cheeks bright red, and holds out his right hand, palm up.

“Spit,” he just says.

Holy fuck.

A cocktail of shame and utter arousal sets Dean’s face aflame. He leans forward and gathers as much saliva as he can, letting it then drip from his lips into the well of Cas’ hand.

“Much obliged,” Cas sighs and returns his attention to his cock.

Fuck, that is Dean’s spit making it all wet and shiny--Dean’s spit and Cas’ precome, all slick on Cas’ hot, velvety skin.

Cas comes with a groan, bucking up into his fist as his free hand grabs at the couch cushion behind him.

Dean thinks he might not hate watching dudes come. Or, he might not hate watching Castiel come, at least.

Castiel comes to his senses a few moments later and he looks down at himself.

“Whoops,” he finally unhands his deflating erection and grabs a few tissues to clean himself up. “How’s that for spontaneity?”

“I should go,” Dean says very suddenly and shoots to his feet.

Cas catches him though, by the sleeve of his overshirt, and offers, “You can stay the night if you’d like.”

“Cas, that’s not--” he stops himself. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to say _that’s not what this is_. So he mutters, “I can’t.”

“Well, then at least don’t come and run,” Cas shifts up to his knees. “Mutual masturbation aside, I do enjoy your company.”

Dean makes a face at this, but doesn’t move to pull away. He doesn’t mind Cas either, and that’s the worst part. He wants to keep watching TV with him right now, more than anything. A look at Castiel’s face, his pink, blotchy, serious face, and Dean checks the time on his watch.

Sam did say to be home at the wee small hours if he could help it, and it’s barely after ten right now.

“Do you know how to play gin rummy?” asks Cas.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Vodka tonics, gin rummy… you sure you don’t got that Benjamin Button disease or whatever?”

Cas scowls at him and pushes himself off the couch to dispose of his and Dean’s empty bottles once again. He opens up one of the drawers under his kitchen counter and tosses a well-worn pack of blue Bicycle cards at Dean.

“You can shuffle, I need to wash my hands.”

**oo**

It’s one o’clock when Dean breaks out of his trance. Cas is  very good at card games, as it turns out. From rummy to five card stud, even to Go Fish, which they played a few times once their brains decided to start shutting down, Cas just has a knack for them.

They don’t talk about much of anything, mostly just exchange teaching horror stories. Cas is a lot funnier than Dean would have expected, though that could have something to do with the fact that they were good and sauced for most of the night.

Dean’s sobered up now, enough to drive home at least. There’s a nice autumnal chill in the air that, after such a long hot summer, Dean appreciates almost more than life itself.

Cas walks him to his car, hands back in his pockets and feet bare against the cold sidewalk.

“You know, you’re perfectly welcome to text me or call any time you’d like to hang out,” he says. “If indeed you would like to do so. I like you.”

Dean feels himself color for the umpteenth time tonight.

“Yeah, Cas,” he ends up nodding. “Yeah, this was an unexpectedly cool night.”

Apart from whacking off in front of one another, at least. Dean doesn’t know that that will ever not be weird.

Then again, he’s the one who chose to watch one of the top ten non-pornographic boner-inducing movies of all time.

They stop awkwardly at the car. Why is it Dean’s first inclination to duck down and kiss that stupid mouth right off of Cas’ face? He doesn’t kiss dudes. Yeah, some guys look nice and everything, and some downright fuckable, yeah (fuck what is _wrong_ with him?), but they're not for kissing. That’s just another step in the absolute wrong direction, and also downright gross.

What’s worse is that Cas leans forward, like he expects to be kissed.

“Uh, see you later,” is all Dean manages to say instead, pulling himself away from temptation. Once in the car, he waves one more time and tries really hard not to peel away from the curb, no matter how badly he wants to.

That… fuck, that can’t happen again. They can be friendly, but they really have to cut down on the screwing around. It’s just not right, and it’ll only frustrate them more. Maybe it’s best if they don’t spend anymore time alone together.

It’s later than Dean cares to be awake when he gets back home. Sam is awake, dressed in his pajamas, hair looking thoroughly wrecked. He’s reading an inexcusably thick book as he eats a bowl of cereal. When he sees Dean, he gives him a smile.

“Thanks, man,” he says. “That was a much-needed night.”

“Keep it to yourself, CNN,” Dean grumbles, going to the fridge to stare fruitlessly into the light at the non-junk that Sam buys.

“How was your playdate?”

“It wasn’t a date!” Dean slams the fridge door shut.

“Dude!” Sam scoots back in his chair. “I said playdate, you freak.”

Oh.

Well, that’s different then.

“Uh, Gabe and Charlie bailed so it was just me and the new history teacher,” he explains. “Had some dinner, watched a movie, hung out.”

Watched each other jerk off.

“It was a nice night,” Dean finds himself smiling, and quickly shakes himself out of it.

“Sounds like a date,” Sam says.

“It was not a date,” Dean repeats. “Goddamn, dates are like, going out to dinner and going to see a movie, and like--”

“Hanging out?”

Realization hits Dean like a ten-ton anvil.

Holy fucking shit, he got duped into a date with Castiel Novak.

“Are you blushing?” Sam laughs, and Dean snaps back into reality. “You are! You’re blushing so hard.”

“You’re blushing, fuck off!” Dean shouts and goes straight to his room without another word. He pulls out his phone and sends a group message to both Charlie and Gabe.

_‘FUCK YOU BOTH SO HARD’_


	4. Don't Change Your Number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Depressive thoughts, Depression, suicide-esque thoughts

“Dean?”

Another round of incessant knocking, and Dean groans into his pillow.

“Hey, it’s noon. Your Zoloft is still out here.”

Dean groans louder in the hopes that Sam will take the hint and fuck off.

He does not.

Dean’s bedroom door opens and Sam steps in, carrying a glass of water in one hand and that little plastic orange bottle in the other. He sets both on Dean’s nightstand and steps back, obviously not intending to leave until he sees today’s pills go down his brother’s throat.

Another groan and Dean pushes himself up. Untwist cap, shake pills into hand, pop pills in mouth, drink water, swallow.

“Happy?” he asks. “You wanna check under my tongue and around my gums?”

“Do I have to?” Sam raises an eyebrow. Dean sneers and flops back onto his bed.

The same scenario replays the next day, around the same time. Get nagged, take pills, flop back to bed. Sure enough, as it is wont to do, Sunday night bleeds into Monday morning and Dean has spent all weekend in bed.

It’s Jess who’s awake with him on weekday mornings, and Jess who eyes him until he pops his Zoloft and chases it with a mouthful of coffee. He should eat breakfast, should grab his lunch out of the fridge and go, but there’s been a nauseous weight in his gut practically all weekend, and the thought of food does him no favors.

So, when Jess finishes her yogurt and leaves to get dressed, Dean sneaks out with nothing but his bag on him and a sincere desire not to be alive.

Not to kill himself, just not to exist. They’re different, no matter what anyone says.

He remembers trying to explain it to dad, a little while after mom died, after he was sure it wasn’t just grief clouding his mind. Dean knows he isn’t the most eloquent person on the planet. Put that together with John Winchester’s boozed up brain and there you had a perfect cocktail of miscommunication.

_“You wanna kill yourself?”_

_“No, I just don’t want to exist.”_

_“What, mom’s dead now you wanna be dead too? Leave me all alone with your brother?”_

_“I don’t wanna be dead! I just wish I’d never been alive.”_

_“After everything we’ve been through, and now you’re pulling this shit? I didn’t raise you to abandon your family.”_

Dean rubs his eyes very, very hard. It’s not even quarter ‘til seven and he’s already parked outside the school, too caught up in something that happened sixteen goddamned years ago to get out of his car and go inside.

The gates are all still locked this early, as well as most of the doors into the main building. The only one that’s ever open this time of day is the door that leads into History Hall. It’s actually just where all the social science and history teachers happen to be clumped, condensed and squared away from everyone else.

There’s only one light on in any of the rooms, and of course that would be the light in Castiel’s classroom. Dean tells himself not to, but ends up unable to resist the siren call. He peeks in through the glass window on the door and gets an eyeful of Castiel pulling a t-shirt down over his head.

When Cas catches Dean at his door, he doesn’t smile and he doesn’t frown. He doesn’t even bounce his eyebrows or wave.

He just stares.

He stares so hard that Dean forgets he was going to just walk on by, stares so hard that Dean finds himself opening the door to room 124 and asking, “What’s with the getup?”

“I run before school,” Castiel replies, as though this is common knowledge.

“And then you teach?” Dean knows his eyes are skimming Cas’ admittedly athletic frame. But come on, he’s a gym teacher… there’s gotta be some fitness-related reason that he’s so stuck on the lithe musculature of Cas’ thighs.

“I don’t go hard enough to sweat,” Castiel explains as he bends forward to touch his toes.

“Wow, you are… flexible,” Dean’s face heats up.

“Yes, I am,” Cas agrees and rolls back up, now stretching out his quads. Then, as though laying eyes upon Dean for the first time that morning, his face softens and he asks, “How are you, Dean?”

A lump rises in Dean’s throat, but he shakes it off.

“I’m good, great,” he nods. “Just didn’t get a lot of sleep this weekend.”

He got all of the sleep this weekend. Every last bit of it.

“I don’t just mean that,” Cas shakes his head. “You look a little ill.”

The only illnesses he’s got are up in his brain--Dean hasn’t actually been ill-ill since he was fourteen.

“I’m okay, Cas,” Dean clears his throat, pointedly not making eye contact. “I better go, but uh. If you ever need, I could start letting you use the locker room showers.”

Cas cocks his head, apparently still in the other conversation. It takes him a few moments to process and reply, “That doesn’t sound inappropriate to you?”

“I’d make sure there weren’t any kids around, you dope,” Dean levels a look at him, and tries not to smile when Castiel grins.  

“Tread lightly, I may take you up on that,” he says.

“Well, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “I’ll be in my office all morning, so. You know where to find me.”

He finally pulls himself away and practically sprints through the building and back toward the gym, back to his office so he can hide under his desk until homeroom starts.

Or punch a hole through the concrete wall.

Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

He bunkers down until he can no longer avoid it. He’s run out of coffee and lost another game of Bejeweled Blitz: he has to go to the lounge.

Thankfully, it’s a clear shot to the coffee maker and nobody takes much notice of him. Charlie and Gabe must not be here yet. Very few of the teachers outside of his department make the time to talk to him, and almost never do if they’re already speaking to someone else. Dean escapes with only having to give Missouri, another history teacher, a quick wave before he slips back out of the lounge.

As he walks toward the back of the school, he hears the distinct brassy sound of a trumpet bounce off the lockers. It’s that militaristic heralding that sends chills up Dean’s spine and sets his entire body in a rigid line.

Motherfucker.

Dean takes a sharp left at the end of the hallway, down to the open door of the music room. Gabriel sits in his tiny soundproof office, door open, legs kicked up on his desk and trumpet against his lips.

As soon as he sees Dean, he stops his little improvisation and instead makes a very distinct squeak of interruption.

“Hey, Dean-o,” he greets. “Have a nice weekend?”

“Fuck you,” is all Dean says before he shuts the office door behind him. Everything is muted now, even the sounds of Gabriel setting down his trumpet and accidentally knocking a flurry of sheet music onto the floor.

“Why, Dean,” Gabriel cocks his head. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about Friday night. I told you, I had a thing.”

“Oh, you think you’re so good,” Dean shakes his head. “Playing innocent with your face, and your weird trumpet noises--”

“It’s called a doit, you fucking rube.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Dean snaps and sits down in the chair in front of Gabe’s desk. “How long have you known?”

Gabriel’s eyes go wide, mirth replaced by complete and utter surprise for only a fraction of a second before he asks, “Known what?”

“You know goddamned well what,” Dean glowers.

“That depends,” Gabe leans back in his chair. “How long have you known?”

This feels like a trap. Maybe Gabriel doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and he’s just trying to get Dean to reveal some insider information. Yeah, Gabe is his best friend, but now the universe is out to prove that this just speaks for how few friends Dean actually has.

“Man,” Gabe sighs. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Shit, this is verging on Real Talk territory. Quickly, Dean pushes himself up from his seat and exits Gabe’s office, almost knocking into a freshman girl who is about to collapse under the weighther cello.

He is not ready. He’s not ready for today, for tomorrow, for two seconds from now, but it’s all hurdling by at light speed anyway. There’s no falling apart, though. There’s no walking into Benny’s office and telling him that he’s come down with something, that he has to go home, because that will just make it all worse.

So Dean walks grabs his attendance sheet for homeroom and decides he’s just going to have to take it as it comes.

And if he ends up dying in battle, great. That’s a whole rest of eternity he gets to go without running into Castiel Novak in the hallways.

**oo**

Dean has to turn in five-week grades by Friday. It’s Dean’s least favorite part of the job, because come on, he knows how bad it sucks to see Ds and Fs on a report card. With his P.E. classes, it’s a little easier. He keeps track of each class by seating chart, marking down when someone’s not prepared, when they’re late, when they’re being self-righteous little fucks. Unless a kid’s a total douchenozzle, Dean is very much the ‘A for Effort’ teacher.

His film class is a little more difficult, and what currently has him bunkered down in his office at five-thirty in his office on a Wednesday night.  He has to finish grading their first test if he’s going to get everything right. This class is mostly seniors looking for an easy A, but Cain only even let Dean teach the class on the condition that he had to be a hardass.

A promise is a promise, and he marks Harry Spangler’s fourth answer with _‘netspeak is not academic writing’_.

Least favorite part of the job, but at least Sammy taught him a few tricks from being a TA back in college.

A knock on the door and Dean looks up. It’s Benny, duffel bag over his shoulder, coach’s jacket hanging over his arm.

“Practice is done,” he says.

“And how are our boys in red shaping up?” Dean asks.

“As a team, they’re really starting to come together,” Benny lets out a tired noise. “We got a lot of work before the homecomin’ game next week, that’s for sure.”

Shit, and _next_ Friday is homecoming.

Will the someone stop pushing the “Royally Fuck Dean Winchester” button already.

Or, at least change ‘royally fuck’ to 'actually fuck'.

Fucking Christ, even that sounds like a chore right now.

“Do I have to chaperone?” he asks.

“You signed up for this one and prom,” Benny chuckles.

“ _Fuckballs_ ,” Dean buries his face in his hands.

“You poor son of a bitch,” Benny gives a fond shake of his head. “You must have one hell of a death wish.”

Dean swallows, but doesn’t let the silence go on long enough before he replies, “More like Talbot runs the dance committee and has it out for me.”

Benny’s smile glints in his eye, even though he only asks, “You okay lockin’ up before you leave?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he nods, and catches the keys when Benny tosses them. Normally he’d head out with Benny, but he really dropped the ball on grading these and of course he had to make an appointment with his stupid fucking psychiatrist _the night before five-weeks are due._

This is it. This is how he’s going to die: a massive aneurysm as he fights to finish marking grades for progress reports.

Jess had failed to mention that teaching is a fuckton of work, especially for someone who wasn’t all that crazy about school when he was in it.

And now his red pen decided to stop working. That’s just fucking great. He pulls open his desk drawer in search of another pen, but of course this is the one time he doesn’t have every fucking pen in the school littering his space. He empties everything that’s not a pen until he finds one. It’s orange, but it’ll do.

“Why do you have condoms in your drawer?

Oh, no.

Dean looks up to find Castiel standing in his doorway.  He’s not in his suit and tie from this morning, most of which he holds in his hands, but instead wears his running clothes. He’s drenched, messy hair flat against his temples and his nape, t-shirt stained dark with sweat.  He actually looks a little cold.

 _Fuck_.  

“I keep a stash for the kids,” he says, and realizes. “That came out wrong.”

“I figured,” Cas nods.

“Charlie,” Dean leads in to explain. “She’s sponsor of GSA, they had a safe sex awareness… thing that they put on last year. She asked some of the staff if they’d supply the kids if they needed.”

“That’s actually brilliant,” Cas picks up the strand of Trojans and inspects them.

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, “You need somethin’?”

“Would you mind if I took a shower?” Castiel asks, like he just asked Dean what time it is.

“Sure,” Dean pushes himself up from the desk. Of all the distractions he could have gotten, of course it had to be Cas. “Lemme make sure it’s all clear.”

Dean leads him back into the locker room and does a thorough check to make sure there aren’t any football stragglers.

“Okay, you’re good,” Dean confirms. He opens the locker closest to the showers and grabs a towel from the emergency stash.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas gives him a smile as he toes off his shoes.

That is a dangerous smile.

“Just…” he clears his throat, “Lemme know when you’re done, I’ll--”

Cas doesn’t give him the chance to finish before he grabs Dean by the front of the shirt and-- _crap_. Dean angles his face and adheres his lips to the juncture of Cas’ neck and shoulder.

Great.

He has to pull away, has to get back to work, can’t let this keep happening,  but… but Cas’ breath hitches and his hands tangle in Dean’s hair and tug and fuck that feels nice.

“De-Dean,” Cas sighs against him, but doesn’t move away. “I have to shower.”

“Right,” Dean mumbles into Cas’ suntanned, sweat-damp skin. He pushes his hands under the hem of Cas’ shirt, fingertips fluttering over the peaks and valleys of his sinewy torso. That pleasure-shame starts bubbling in his throat again, sending electricity up his arms and down to his toes.

He pulls Cas’ shirt over his head and tosses it aside. He fully intends on going for his shorts next, but before he can do anything, Cas grabs his face and makes him meet his eye. There’s something in this guy’s stare that bores into him, that makes Dean’s hair stand on end.

“I have to shower,” he repeats, slower this time. He gives Dean a little shove back and pulls his own shorts down.

There he is, folks--Castiel Novak, live and in person and _totally butt-fucking-naked_ save for the shorts in his hand. Dean can’t help that his gaze dips down immediately to do a dick check, just tries to play it cool when they meet eyes again.

Then Cas breaks into a grin and says, “You look like you could use one too.”

He reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out one of the Trojans from Dean’s office.

“You know you owe me fifteen cents, right?” Dean smirks, whipping his sleeves and shirt off in one go.

“Well, I’m almost positive we’ll be able to come to an understanding,” Cas cocks his head, watching Dean scurry out of his jeans with a smile.

It’s a good thing Dean could give two shits about being sexy for dudes, because he happens to make a less than graceful stumble when his jeans get caught on his shoes. Cas lets out a laugh as Dean hops over to a bench and tries to situate himself.

“Come find me when you’re ready,” he calls over his shoulder and disappears into the shower room. Dean can’t get undressed fast enough. If he takes his time he might get caught up thinking about it. Fooling around with a guy is one thing, but doing it multiple times with one dude? This is a fucking minefield of bad ideas.

And yet he gets a jolt of excitement in his gut when he hears the showers go on. He eventually manages to get naked and has to tread carefully into the tiled room. Steam already unfurls from the first stall on the right, and Dean smiles as he slips inside.

Water pours over the sharp planes of Cas’ body, rivers here and trickling streams there. He turns to rinse his face, and that’s when Dean sees it. Nestled between his shoulderblades is an ornately colored spacescape. Dean lets out a breath and reaches out to run his fingers over the worn-in lines.

“Holy shit,” is all he manages.

“What can I say,” says Cas. “Running is good for your ass.”

“Not that,” Dean gives him a swift swat to one of the aforementioned ass’ cheeks. Under the blurred deep blue edges of outer space reads, _“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.”_

“Dude, how did you sit for this?” Dean marvels.

“Honestly? Not well,” says Cas. “We had to do two sessions.”

“Man, well worth it,” Dean traces an alien planet’s rings with his finger. “It’s pretty awesome.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas turns slightly. “I like yours too.”

Dean drops his his gaze back down to the swirl of colors on Cas’ back. It’s not something he’d expect from the reserved, serious-faced history teacher, but then again, he hadn’t expected him to own a bitchin’ car either.

He slips his fingers between Cas’ cheeks and teases at the tight pucker of muscle, only to have Cas whip around on him and glare.

“Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘buy me a drink first’?”

Dean looks down. So, he’s not totally hard yet. He’s also not totally soft either. Dean’s tongue darts out to catch the shower water cascading past his lips, eyes unable to stray from Cas’ dick as it lengthens and swells right in front of him.

Okay, he did it before and he can do it again.

Can.

Shouldn’t and wouldn’t, but Cas leans against the tile wall and takes himself into his hand and how is Dean supposed to ignore that? He closes most of the space between them and bats Cas’ hand away.

It’s really bizarre to feel someone else getting hard in his hand.

At least Cas doesn’t push for more. He’d probably be perfectly content to let Dean get him off just like this. Some creeps will just try to make you do stuff you don’t wanna do, but Cas isn’t like that. It’s like every touch he gets is a damn religious experience, every push and pull of muscle a silent prayer.

And what’s weirder is that getting Cas hard is making Dean get hard.

It’s that same lip-smacking rush of satisfaction he gets when he sees a dark patch of wet on a girl’s panties after he’s finished going over every inch of her.

Does that mean he also wants to put Cas’ cock in his mouth?

“Has anybody ever told you that you think too much?” Cas asks, watching him through one open eye. Dean lets out a laugh.

“No, of all the problems people’ve said I got, that’s never been one of ‘em,” he says and seals his lips over the scratchy shadow on Cas’ jaw.

“Well, someone should have said so,” Cas drags his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Because it’s definitely one of your most glaring faults.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean nips his chin. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

He pops a finger into his mouth, belatedly realizing that the musky, heady taste that follows is Cas.

The last of the blood in his brain flows south, and Dean reaches back to work a spit-slick finger into Cas. A second follows. It’s a little tight, but Cas tells him to keep going, so Dean does, stretching and easing until Cas is panting against the wall.

“Do it,” is the only instruction Dean receives. He grabs the condom from between Cas’ fingers and tears it open with his teeth.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do that.”

“Do you ever get tired of being a know-it-all little shit?”

“Not really, no.”

Dean opens his mouth to retaliate, but Cas hooks a leg around his and attempts to ease him forward. Only, Cas is shorter than him and this is just not going to fucking work.

“‘m pickin’ you up.”

Once he’s up, Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s waist. He’s a little heavier than Dean expected, but it’s worth it because soon he’s got Cas wrapped around his cock again and it’s damn near heavenly. It’s just as good a second time, maybe even better now that he’s not as wasted.

“Holy fuck, you’re really big,” Cas digs his fingernails into Dean’s scalp.

“You okay?” Dean asks, trying to keep the smug pride out of his voice. His cock twitches inside Cas as he adjusts and he swallows hard. A flush spreads on Cas’ chest, his muscles flicker under his skin, his ribs contract and expand as he tries to breathe through the discomfort.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m gonna--”

“Don’t,” Cas tightens his legs around Dean’s waist and presses their bodies as close as they’ll get. He leans in close to Dean’s ear, and his voice pours out, rich and velvety, “Fuck me with your big cock until I come all over you. Make me come, Dean.”

A noise gets caught in Dean’s throat as his brain processes and makes to act on this request. He braces himself against the wall, careful not to squish Cas as he starts rolling his hips. Fucking shitty ass position. Shitty ass shower sex. How come he didn’t just make Cas spin around like a normal person?

He comes out of his sex haze just long enough to hear a stream of dirty words pouring out of Cas’ mouth--some truly raunchy shit. Deans blood pumps hard when he hears, _“Yes, fuck, so good. You’re doing so good, Dean. You got me so hard, you’re gonna make me come.”_

Dean rests his head on his shoulder and reaches between them, eliciting a soft, pleasured groan when his hand closes around Cas’ cock.

It’s a harried mess of shower steam and limbs and tongues and teeth and scratching, but Dean manages to get Cas to come first. He comes all over his chest and stomach, on Dean’s hand and one little straggler spurt on Dean’s stomach.

Cas murmurs praises about making him come first, about how good he is and how sexy he is, and it’s beyond Dean’s ability to handle. He slams Cas back against the tile wall and rides out the last few bucks until he comes, the tight, pulsing heat around him milking every last drop from him.

For the first time in a few days, he experiences a type of euphoria he can only recognize from childhood, that pure concentrated joy that makes you the happiest you’ve ever been to be alive.

It quickly nosedives though. As soon as he lets Cas back down to the floor, his muscles scream out in agony and he has the very vivid awareness that he just fucked a guy.

Completely sober.

This goes against every unspoken, unwritten rule Dean has about sleeping with dudes.

He’s officially slept with dudes enough times for that to warrant having rules.

The strangest is that Cas goes back to washing himself like there’s nothing to it. Good. He likes someone who respects his boundaries, respects his rules. Dean peels off the condom and disposes it in the trash bin just outside the shower room before grabbing another towel for himself.

As he pats himself dry and shrugs back into his clothes, Dean tries to process his current situation. He opts out of the tattoo jackets now that there aren’t any students around and instead tucks them in his pockets. He has half a mind to just leave Castiel here, before it gets awkward, but Dean realizes he promised Benny he’d lock up.

Thankfully, Cas steps out of the shower room a few moments later. As Castiel towels himself dry, Dean takes a seat on one of the benches and waits. How long does silence have to persist before it can be called awkward?

“May I ask you about your tattoos?” Cas then asks as he steps carefully into a fresh pair of undies.

“You just did,” Dean clears his throat, and looks up in response to Cas’ silence. “Sure, Cas. Ask away.”

“You’re not particularly religious,” he says. “So I’m confused as to why you have an archangel on your arm.”

“Nah, man, he’s my favorite,” Dean crosses his ankles in front of him. “Good ol’ Saint Michael… fighting crime and stuff.”

“Sure,” Cas lets out a laugh and zips up his slacks. “And to be honest I don’t know what the other one is…”

“Aquarius,” Dean explains. “Water bearer.”

“That is a very large zodiac tattoo,” Castiel cocks his head, trying to get another look at it, as though that will help him decipher its meaning. Dean turns his arms inward and changes the subject.

“What’s yours all about?” he asks.

In nothing but his slacks and undershirt, Cas studies him.

“I originally entered college with ambitions to study astronomy,” Cas finally says. “I decided to change to history instead.”

“Too intense?” Dean guesses.

“Not so much,” Cas shakes his head, sliding his dress shirt back over his shoulders. “I had a proclivity for math and science when I was younger, which is hardly surprising since my mother is an astrophysics professor. She always encouraged my scientific curiosities, even though my stepfather always told me that I’d be much better off studying economics or business.”

“Probably,” Dean considers.

“I spent so much of my youth wrapped up in wanting to understand,” says Cas. “I wanted to see what my mother saw in all those celestial bodies. I knew they were beautiful, I knew what they were and how they worked, but it felt empty.”

“I thought you said you loved it,” Dean’s brow furrows.

“I did,” Cas nods. “And I do. But then one day I was sitting in a history lecture and it struck me that I never realized how truly fascinating our world was. I’d spent my whole life trying to understand the universe on a cosmic level that I never stopped and tried to understand our world on a human level.”

… wow. Dean has never heard anyone give so much thought to their area of study. Even Sam didn’t look that impassioned when he realized he wanted to become a lawyer.

“What about you?” asks Cas.

Dean raises his eyebrows. Was Cas trying to have a conversation with him? Christ, he just fucked the guy, what more could he possibly want?

“Me?” Dean pushes himself off the bench. “I gotta lock up here and finish grading papers. So, if you’re done we should get out of here.”

The light behind Cas’ eyes goes out and he nods.

“Of course.”

**oo**

Even after he got home, Dean was up until one in the morning finishing his grades. He zombie shuffles into the main office and slides all his paperwork into the proper inbox, and then checks his own.

A flyer about homecoming, a reminder that there’s an all-faculty meeting on Tuesday ( _goddamn it_ ), an updated schoolwide contact list, and one of his homeroom student’s ID cards. Knowing Andy, he’s probably been so stoned out of his skull that he hasn’t even realized it’s gone yet.

On his way back toward his office, he sees Cas coming back from the track. Something in Dean’s brain tells him to stop, to put his hand in front of Cas and ask him with a grin, “ _didn’t you just run last night?_ ” Because then Cas would cock his head and grin and bounce his eyebrows and probably say something like _“Maybe I just wanted another excuse to shower."_ And then Dean would drag him back to his office and lock the door and they’d make out until it was time to get to work.

Instead, Cas smiles and waves, and Dean just keeps walking. He doesn’t even look at him--he can’t without seeing the entirety of last night flash before his eyes. The second worst part about being sober? He can remember every last detail of the encounter. The worst part? He liked it, and knows he has nothing to blame but his stupid shitty self.  

Plus, if he looks back now he’ll probably see disappointment on Cas’ face, when he’d rather see what he saw last night.

Dean shakes himself out of it and puts that thought as far back in his mind as it will go. He has to nut the hell up and focus.

_‘--and up straight when I’m talking to you, goddamn it.’_

Dean’s stomach churns as John Winchester’s voice echoes in the back of his mind.

Redirect. Redirect and push the fuck through it.

It works until lunchtime, when Cas decides to come into Dean’s office and shut the door behind him.

“Please, come right in.”

“What is your problem?” Cas demands, voice unlike Dean has heard until now.

“I have a lot, you’ll have to be more specific,” Dean decides to say through a mouthful of his turkey sandwich. He may as well be eating cardboard.

“Dean, I could give a rat’s ass if you’re in the closet,” Castiel snaps. “Don’t take it out on me.”

“I’m not in the closet,” Dean scowls, and colors further when Cas lets out a laugh.

“Wow, you’re so far in the closet you’re still in Narnia.”

Dean must make a face, because Castiel explains, “You’ve managed to wander so far into denial that you’re borderline delusional.”

“I’m not delusional,” Dean scoffs.

“Delusion,” Cas declares, “a belief that is maintained despite being contradicted by fact or rational thinking. Correct me if I’m wrong, but fucking a guy, _enjoying_ fucking a guy, fucking that guy again, and then declaring you don’t like guys? Delusional!”

“Who said I was enjoying it?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you’re the delusional one.”

Castiel raises his eyebrow and plants his hands on the desk.

“It is very important that you answer me honestly, Dean,” he says, voice low and steady, free of his previous edge. “At any point did you want me to stop? Do you feel that any of what we did was without your consent?”

The seriousness behind Castiel’s eyes freezes Dean in his seat. Put like that, it does sound a little dubious. Dean feels his jaw work, but the first few times he tries to talk, nothing comes out.

Finally, he answers, “No. I…”

He swallows again.

“I wanted to.”

Flames flare up under his skin as Cas nods, and then makes a hasty retreat.

The rest of the day does not go well, and finds Dean dragging ass all through his last class and and through the first half of his doctor’s appointment.

At least here in Doctor Barnes’ office there’s no chance of Cas bursting in and asking him what the hell his problem is.

“Well,” Doctor Barnes--Pam--looks down at her notepad, lost in thought. “It sounds like we’re at about where we were last month when we upped your dose. Have you made an appointment for cognitive behavioral therapy yet?”

Dean sighs, “No.”

Pam purses her lips and nods, “Well, as you know I can only make suggestions. That’s a damn good suggestion, though.”

Dean hums.

“Sounds like work is stressful,” she says. “Especially with new blood coming in.”

Dean’s skin prickles at the roundabout mention of Cas. Under no circumstances is he talking about that right now. He’s got enough fucking problems to worry about without all this making it worse.

So maybe he left out the part about banging the new guy a few times.

That’s not what he’s here for.

The rest of his session is spent listening to the clock tick on the wall, and he leaves with a brand new prescription in his hands.

To hell with Sam, to hell with everyone. More than anything in the world, Dean wants a cheeseburger for dinner, and damn it that’s what he’s going to get. He hauls ass to the pharmacy, drops off the new order for meds, and proceeds to get the biggest, messiest burger he can find on the way home.

Jess and Sam are already eating when Dean gets back, something that smells like nothing and crunches like it’s fresh from the farm. Sam only needs to look at the bag Dean plops onto the table before he lets out a tired, “Really?”

“Damn straight,” Dean nods and fishes the burger out of the bag. The first bite is nothing short of a revelation, the taste of finally coming home after too long a time away. He lets out an embarrassingly loud noise of satisfaction, but he doesn’t give a shit. This is the best thing that’s happened to him in weeks.

“Should we give you two a moment?” asks Sam.

“Suck my balls, Sammy,” Dean hums. “This is the fuckin’ body, mind, and soul of Christ, hot damn.”

Jess laughs, and to Dean’s relief, so does Sam. And that’s the end of it. Miraculously, Dean is left alone to enjoy something he loves.

He ends his meal in a mild food coma, insides soaked in grease and red meat and potatoes and cheese, but damn if it wasn’t worth it.

His phone chirps and he pulls it from his pocket.

A message from the pharmacy that his prescription is ready, and… what the hell?

He has a missed call and voicemail from Cas, timestamped around when Dean was sitting in his appointment. Color rises to his cheeks and his heart starts beating hard. Fuck, what could he possibly want?

Hoping Jess and Sam just continue talking about their own work days, Dean presses his phone to his ear and plays the message.

_“Hello, Dean, it’s Castiel. I understand that my outburst this afternoon was inappropriate, and I wanted to apologize. I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about last night, and I had to know if you were thinking about it too. Even when I got home afterward, I started getting hard again. I’m getting hard now just thinking about it--” Oh… oh wow. There’s a shift and then Cas continues, “You have no idea what you do to me, Dean… or what I’d do to you, if you gave me a chance--”_

Dean pulls the phone away from his ears and pauses the message, completely aware that Sam and Jess are both staring at him now.

“You okay?” asks Sam.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Yeah, just… I gotta go make. A call.”

He pushes up from the table and charges back to his room, slamming the door right in Angus’ face. Damn.

“Sorry, bud,” he apologizes. “I’ll be done in a bit, then we’ll go for a walk.”

Why he’s promising walks to a dog that is probably not even outside his door anymore is beyond him, but he can’t be anywhere but here right now. He has to have that voice back in his ear, recorded though it may be, has to hear the rest of what Cas has to say.

Dean toes off his shoes and pulls off his jacket before he lies back on his bed. Hands shaking, he presses play.

_“--I didn’t get to touch you enough last night, not nearly enough. You like to be touched, don’t you though? I can tell. You leaned into me every single time I had my hands on you. Nobody touches you the way you want, do they? The way you need? You just want someone to feel every last inch of you, don’t you. I would touch you, Dean. I would lay you down and pull your clothes off piece by piece, and then worship every bit of skin I could get to. I bet you’d be begging me by the time I was done, begging for my hand on your cock. I would give it to you. I would give you anything you wanted. Even though I would much rather give you my mouth. I loved having you in my mouth, Dean. You taste so good. I would do anything to suck your cock again, for you to come in my mouth again.”_

He goes silent for a few seconds--it’s not over, is it?

_“Are you hard yet, Dean?”_

Dean’s stomach bottoms out, because yes he is. He didn’t even realize, Cas had him so wrapped up.

_“You want to touch yourself, I know you do.”_

Dean fumbles with the button on his jeans as Cas continues, _“You want to wrap yourself up and fuck your fist, don’t you. You want me to talk you through it, tell you everything I want to do to you and then come with me right in your ear.”_

Fuck, he wants it more than anything, Dean realizes as he arches into his own hand.

_“I’d like for you to do that too, but only if you call me back. If you want to come with me, you’ll call me as soon as you get this.”_

The message ends and Dean slams his head back against his mattress. He’s gonna throttle this motherfucker next time he sees him.

Dean is in fact so caught up in a rage that he doesn’t realize he’s hit ‘redial’ until that thick voice answers, “Hello, Dean.”

“You’re a weasley little shit, you know that?” Dean snipes back.

“I’ve been waiting, working,” Cas hums into his ear. “It’s difficult grading quizzes when all I want to do is get down on my knees and suck all the come out of your cock.”

Dean lets out a little breath, grip tightening on his dick, but still not moving.

“You do taste very good, Dean,” Cass comments then. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“‘Your spunk tastes good’ and ‘you think too much’,” Dean gulps back a nervous laugh. “Two things no one has ever told me.”

“So you do remember last night,” he can hear Cas grin through the phone.

“Kinda hard to forget,” Dean swallows.

“Well, you made it look effortless today,” Cas considers, disappointment weaving through his voice.

“S-sorry,” Dean’s breath hitches.

“... you are?”

Dean opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Is he?

“Wait. Dean, are you masturbating right now?” Not an accusation, but genuine curiosity.

“Uh,” Dean looks down. “Kinda?”

“Move your hand, Dean.”

Dean does, relief spreading up through his base to his crown as he hears ruffling on the other end of the line.

“Does that feel better?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs.

“I wish I could see you now,” Cas keens into the receiver. “You look so incredible when you touch yourself. What’s happening right now?”

“Uh, ‘m talking to you?” Dean guesses.

“Look down at your hand, tell me what’s happening,” says Cas.

“Oh,” Dean’s cheeks go even darker. God, he hopes Sam and Jess are well out of earshot. “I got my cock in my hand. I--” he swallows hard. “I started getting hard as soon as I saw you’d called me.”

“That soon?” Cas chuckles. “I had no idea I had that great of an effect on you.”

“You do,” Dean sighs, smearing precome up and down his shaft, “I get a little randy every time I see you.”

He definitely didn’t mean to say that. Everything just feels so fucking good right now, and he’s about to apologize but he’s cut short by groan in his ear.

Okay, he likes that sound a lot.

“Dean, you naughty boy,” Cas comes back on the end of a breathless laugh. “I bet you’d let me push you face-first into the lockers and fuck you in the middle of the hallway.”

“Yeah,” Dean finds himself replying, hand working quickly over his cock. “Yeah I would.”

“You liar,” Cas teases. “Have you ever had a dick in your ass before?”

“N-no,” Dean gulps, embarrassment now burning his whole body. It somehow makes his cock twitch even more insistently.

“You must be very, very naughty if you’d let me do that, then,” Cas doesn’t sound like he’s anymore with it. “ _Shit_. Dean, are you close?”

Dean’s only response is a choked noise in the back of his throat.

“Hang on,” Cas pants. “Slow down and come with me.”

But Dean is already right at the edge. He’d have to let go right this second if he was going to and--

“Holy _fuck_!” Dean drops the phone and slaps his palm against his mouth, trying to stifle the chesty groans that come out as he shoots pulse after pulse of come up onto his chest, over his belly and hand.

He takes in air like he’s never breathed before this very second, sweaty, mildly horrified, and pleasantly boneless. From right below Dean’s ear, he can hear Cas’ pornstar lungs belt out every filthy swear on book, groaning through his entire orgasm.

He picks up the phone just as Cas asks, “Are you as covered as I am?”

Dean grins and, on a whim, decides he’s going to snap a picture of his come-coated belly and send it to Cas.

Post-sex endorphins make him crazy stupid, he knows, but he’s learned by now just to enjoy it.

“Oh, Dean,” he hears Cas praise on the other end. “Dean, that is absolutely gorgeous.”

“Glad you like it,” Dean smiles. “I have a whole five minutes of thinking about taking a junior college photography class under my belt.”

Cas lets out an inhuman giggle in his ear.

Then his phone buzzes with a similar picture from Cas to him.

“Goddamn,” Dean breathes.

“You see what you do to me?” Cas hums, then heaves a sigh, “It really is a shame that you don’t like guys.”

And the line goes dead.

 

 


	5. Got That Fever Once Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self harm, implied past suicide attempt, heavy depression stuff

Castiel doesn’t talk to Dean at all on Friday, and keeps to himself through the weekend. Sam watches Dean closely, but doesn’t ask if he’s okay. Dean thinks he’d rather have Sam hound him into talking than have him ready to jump into action every time Dean moves too quick or sneezes through an allergy attack.

He doesn’t like that Sam can see how often he checks his phone, hoping for any trace of Cas’ name to appear. Quite frankly, Dean doesn’t like that he’s checking his phone at all, and midway through Saturday morning he sets his phone to Do Not Disturb.

On Sunday morning, Dean loses a staring competition to his new meds. These ones warn that he might get dizzy, which only spawns flashbacks to the first pills Pam put him on. He couldn’t keep his breakfast down for a week, and Sammy--

Sammy sat with him while he yacked in the toilet, because underneath that stupid hair and nerdy brain, he’s got a good heart. Everything they’ve been through and still Sam managed to come out of it a decent guy.

“Dude, you can’t mad dog them out of the bottle, you gotta open it.”

Dean looks up at Sam with a scowl on his face. Yeah, he’ll take this new shit, but he’ll let Sam know he damn well isn’t happy about it. He opens the bottle and takes half a dosage into his hand. He’s supposed to take small doses and work up to the full amount, so his body doesn’t go into shock or some fucked up shit like that.

Sam looked it up once, says if you stop taking some of these all at once you can stroke out.

When he realizes that that doesn’t sound like the worst option, he snaps out of himself and swallows the new pill back with his others.

He waits.

Medication may not be the cure-all, but it’s worked miracles on him before, and goddamn if he doesn’t need a miracle now.

Monday morning doesn’t come any easier than it usually does. He drags his feet and hides out before school, but then something strange happens. A wave of something starts in his gut and travels all the way up through his chest and to his face.

He thinks he might be smiling.

Suddenly it all doesn't seem so bleak. He can even deal with Cas standing beside him, waiting for their coffee to brew before third period starts. He's not gonna talk to the guy or anything, mostly because he's afraid of what inappropriate shit might tumble out of his skull if he does. Plus, he may be smiling, but that doesn't mean his stomach doesn't drop when he remembers what he and Cas have been getting up to.

 

Not a cure-all in the slightest, he notes as Cas steps a little closer to him and watches intently as he pours his coffee into his mug. He puts the pot down as soon as he's done and takes off out of the lounge before the wriggling mealworms in his stomach turn into butterflies.

“Hey, Dean!” Charlie calls from her classroom down the hall. Feeling just about ready to put this Cas shit out of his mind, Dean strides on over to her room. She sits behind her desk, typing away on her laptop, and Dean leans on the doorjamb so he can ask, “What’s happenin’, hot stuff?”

Charlie frowns, confused, before she looks up and realizes that yes, that is Dean in front of her. She looks him up and down, calculating. She’d be much more intimidating if her laptop didn’t have a giant sticker that reads “ _Han Shot First_ ” slapped across its lid.

“What?” Dean finally asks. “I got somethin’ on my face?”

She doesn’t say a word, and Dean frowns.

“C’mon, you’re lookin’ at me like I just got off a UFO, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Charlie shakes her head. “You just look sort of… happy.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. Has he really been that low? Because, no lie, he’s feeling kind of awesome in spite of everything right now.   

“It’s a refreshing change of pace,” she smiles then. “I worry about you, kid.”

“I’m three years older than you,” Dean’s brows knit together.

“And yet at least five years my junior, as far as maturity goes,” Charlie smirks. Dean flips her off.

“Really, though,” she leans forward. “It’s nice to see a smile on your face.”

“I smile,” Dean shifts, shoulders curling forward slightly.

“Yeah, but this is a real smile,” she says, her own lips curving up. “It suits you.”

It’s the strangest compliment he’s ever gotten. Dad used to tell him he smiled too much, that if you’re smiling you’re obviously not working hard enough, or paying enough attention to what’s happening in the world.

Dad never did trust happy people.

“Thanks, Chaz,” Dean says. “That’s… that was nice.”

The bell rings and Charlie shoos him away, “Get back to your side of the building, pleb.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves her off. He weaves through the sea of students to get to third period, careful to keep his coffee upright and off of the shorter students’ heads.

He passes Cas in the hallway, but other than catch each other’s eye for a brief moment they don’t interact.

Not great, but not the worst.

**oo**

On Tuesday, Dean gets to school early to set up for second period. He sets orange cones out on the dewy green field, thankful for the solitude. Halfway through his task, he looks up only to find that he’s not alone. Castiel is out for his morning run.

When he finishes, so does Cas.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. You need a shower?”

“No.”

Dean glances over and sees Cas taking his pulse, neck elongated and exposed. He wants to lean over and take that pulse with his tongue.

When Dean moves a little too close, Cas reels back.

“Is there something _you_ want, Mr. Winchester?” he asks.

His stare is a challenge, the gauntlet that lands on the tarmac at Dean’s feet. He wets his lips and stands his ground.

“Nope,” he shakes his head.

Cas raises his eyebrow, “Really.”

“Yup,” Dean manages to nod. “Really.”

Cas makes a noise that’s doesn’t signify approval or disapproval so much as acknowledge it, and jogs the rest of the way back into the building.

Dean doesn’t know if it’s the sudden burst of heat to his face or the radioactive butterflies in his stomach, but he has to race to the nearest garbage can and yack up what’s left of his mini wheats.

**oo**

On Wednesday, Dean spends most of homeroom and second period pretending that he hasn’t been nauseated to near incapacitation.

He doesn’t throw up at all, but at lunchtime when he only eats a bite of his sandwich, Gabe smacks a hand to his forehead to check for a fever.

**oo**

By Thursday Dean’s appetite has stabilized, though has by no means returned to normal.

“Is it as bad as it was before?” asks Sam.

“No, thank god,” Dean breathes deep as he tries to fight down the rest of his cereal.

“How are you feeling otherwise?” Sam presses, barely even allowing Dean a thought to himself. Who the fuck does this kid think he is? He doesn’t want to talk about how he’s feeling, he wants to be able to hold down his goddamned breakfast.

He thinks he’s trying to be mad, but it’s not really happening.

Before Dean can answer, they hear the bathroom door open and shut, followed by the distinct sound of vomit in the toilet. The sound alone is enough to get Dean gagging around his cereal. He puts his spoon into the bowl and holds a hand to his mouth, just for good measure.

“Jess?” Sam calls, but he gets no response. “Jess, what’s going on?”

A moment of silence and then a mumbled, “I threw up.”

“Christ,” Sam sets down his coffee. “Maybe it’s not the meds and you guys just got a stomach bug.”

He presses a hand to Dean’s forehead, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing if you have a fever.”

Dean pulls away, and through various attempted hits, asserts, “I don’t need you to check my temperature!”

Sam draws his hand back and holds his arms out, a look on his face like he just spooked a wild animal. Dean lets out a sigh and mutters, “I didn’t mean that. I just--”

He just doesn’t know why Sam keeps babying him. Why does he _care_?

“I better head out,” he mutters and dumps the rest of the cereal in the sink.

He doesn’t speak until absolutely necessary, but at least his sophomores seem to recognize he’s not at one hundred percent this morning and take it easy on him.

“ _GSA will be meeting today at lunch in room 107. Everyone is welcome.”_

It’s short, sweet, nestled in between an announcement about Environmental Club and Homecoming. It must be part of the announcements every Thursday, but somehow Dean has never heard it until now. He knows that Charlie doesn’t eat in the lounge on Thursdays, but it never quite registered that, oh, that’s where she is.

No longer propelled by the mini-mania of the new drugs, his third period film class is a little lackluster. He’s supposed to be discussing the flick they watched on Monday, but Dean can’t bring himself to facilitate.

“Anyone have a scene they wanna revisit?” he asks.

Silence.

 _Awesome_.

“Okay, guys,” Dean sighs. “You’re talkin’ about the movie or you’re writing about it, so you may as well get talkin’.”

“Marlon Brando was pretty bangable,” suggests Ruby, a senior with a shit-ass attitude who’s already got Dean on the verge of murder only a month and a half into school.

“Mm, true facts,” Harry agrees. “No homo, the guy was totes adorbs. How many years before _The Godfather_ was this?”

“Hey,” Dean snaps. “Cool it with the ‘no homo’ crap, all right? Any phrase you’re gonna leave behind when you walk in here, it better be that one.”

Whoa, where the hell did that come from?

The rest of the class is just as tedious, and of course they’re on block schedule so everyone is squirming in their seats, begging to be released. There’s only so much discussion you can squeeze out of a bunch of seventeen-year-olds, but under the threat of a writing assignment they cave pretty quickly.

Good, because Dean doesn’t give enough of a shit about _A Streetcar Named Desire_ to read forty goddamned papers about it.

By the time the lunch bell rings, it’s nothing short of a relief.

Dean only eats about half of his pasta--which is really pasta salad with _whole grain noodles_ and _boneless skinless chicken breast_ \--before he decides he doesn’t need food, but a nice relaxing walk.

He grinds his molars as he makes his way from his office out into the hallway, but stops just short of going outside. Down at the end of the hall sits room 107, door open and calling out for Dean to come in, just for a minute. He doesn’t know what’s propelling him forward, but it’s definitely something he doesn’t like.

And yet somehow by the time he comes out of his head he’s standing in room 107’s doorway, watching as the student facilitator leads their meeting. Charlie sits crosslegged on a table at the front of the room, eating her yogurt, there for guidance but not to lead.

She catches Dean just as he’s about to turn and leave, with a simple, pseudo-innocent, “Did you need something, Mr. Winchester?”

“Oh,” Dean shrinks under the weight of a dozen students’ eyes all on him at once. “Uh, hey guys. And gals. And, uh. Others.”

Charlie smiles, like she’s watching a baby try to pull itself to its feet.

“I wanted to talk to you, Ms. Bradbury,” he says.

“Well, we’re in the middle of a meeting,” Charlie gestures. “We’ll be done in a bit, if you wanna come back.”

“Um,” Dean clears his throat. “No, I’ll--I’ll forget. I’ll just hang around, if it’s cool?”

Bless her, Charlie tries to keep a straight face as she nods.

Determined to play it cool, Dean takes a seat at the back of the room, at her desk. There’s a game of tetris paused on her screen, and Dean smiles.

“Okay,” the student facilitator continues. Dean has never seen her before. There are a couple of his students, Dean discovers. Maggie Zeddmore, a sophomore from his second period class, and, wouldn’t you know it, Alan Corbett, a junior from his film class.

To be honest, Dean has noticed the kid making eyes Ed Zeddmore instead of paying attention in class.

Dean finds himself wondering if he’s been making eyes at Cas. He doesn’t think he has been, hopes he hasn’t been. Quickies when no one’s looking, not ideal but not the worst. Mooning? Not even remotely near the realm of cool.

“Mr. Winchester!”

Dean snaps out of his thoughts and back into the room. Kids are up and about, shuffling and talking animatedly with one another.

And there’s Alan standing right in front of him.

Fuck.

“Uh…” he begins, the very picture of intelligence. “Hey, Alan.”

“Oh, you can call me Corbett,” Alan fiddles with his fingers. “Most everyone does.”

“Listen, about today in class,” he continues. “The ‘no homo’ thing. I wanted to thank you. I know I should speak up when stuff like that happens, but--”

“Hey, man, it’s tough,” Dean replies. “Especially when it’s your peers.”

“Yeah,” Corbett nods, though doesn’t say anything else. But it’s not in that way that you get quiet when you’ve run out of stuff to say, it’s the ‘I don’t know how to say what I want to say without saying too much’ look.

Dean knows that look all too well.

“Especially when maybe you might have a crush on one of said peers?” he asks, offering Corbett the bait. His eyes snap to Dean’s, wide. He opens his mouth to speak, but is hastily interrupted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Everyone’s hangin’ out without me?”

Gabe enters the room, a pink pastry box in hand.

“All right! Mr. Dickinson brought donuts!”

Gabe barely gets to set the box down on the table up front before he’s mauled by a dozen hungry teenagers, Corbett included. Gabe and Charlie both barely make it out alive, from the looks of it.

“Dean-o,” Gabe greets, plopping a maple bar down in front of him. “Dean-a-roo, Jack and the Deanstalk.”

“Are you having a stroke?” asks Dean.

“I might be,” Gabe shrugs. “‘Cause it looks like you’re sitting in on the GSA meeting.”

“QSA,” Charlie corrects and comes around the back of her desk. She looks and Dean, “Get out of my chair, nerd.”

Dean stands and explains, “I just wanted to talk to Charlie.”

“Well, here I am,” Charlie clasps her hands in front of her. “Talk to me.”

Dean fishes for an excuse while Gabe stands beside him, watching intently as he chews a mouthful of donut.

“I… forgot,” he says.

“Boo,” Gabriel cups his hand over his mouth. “You can do better than that, kid.”

“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doin’ here, pal?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Sure,” Gabe nods and swallows his mouthful. “I’m queer.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You are not,” he says. He’s been trying to sleep with Kali, that hardass in the English department, the entire time Dean has known him. “... are you?”

Gabe nods again and pulls out his phone, scrolling until he finds what he’s looking for. He shows Dean what turns out to be a picture of him and Charlie.

“Why are you wearing rainbow socks?” Dean grimaces.

“‘cause they don’t make socks in the colors of the pansexual flag,” Gabe answers, as though it should be obvious. Dean sighs.

“Okay, but why are you only wearing rainbow socks?” he poses, and looks up just in time to see Gabe bounce his eyebrows.

“Pride this summer,” Charlie explains. “We go every year, and every year he gets sunburned within an inch of his life”

“I enjoy my annual layer shedding,” says Gabe.

“Not as much as you’ll be enjoying your melanoma,” Charlie shoots back.

“It’s rejuvenating, man, you don’t even know.”

Dean turns to Gabe, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

“Wait, you like guys?” he asks.  

“Everyone,” Gabe answers, and continues at what must be a puzzled look on Dean’s face, “Pansexual means I think everyone is hot.”

Dean frowns and involuntarily shifts away.

“Oh, not you,” Gabe rolls his eyes. “You’re sexy as hell, sure, but it’d be wrong.”

“Why?” Charlie leans her chin on her palm. “I think you two would make an adorable couple.”

“Dude!” Dean exclaims.

“Nah,” Gabe shakes his head. “Morality clause, couldn’t do it.”

Dean’s face heats up.

Cas didn’t--he wouldn’t tell Gabe, did he?

Jesus, who is he kidding, of course Cas told Gabe. Of course he did, and now Gabe knows what _nobody is supposed to know because it’s not true he’s not gay._

“And I mean, chasing straight guys,” Gabe whistles, and every single one of Dean’s muscles unclench. Gabe ticks his tongue and continues, “Talk about a dead end. No need for that kinda heartbreak, that’s what I always say.”

There is absolutely no laughter on his face when he makes eye contact with Dean. Unencumbered, they become hawk-like: sharp, piercing and goddamned terrifying.

He knows.

Oh, fuck he knows.

The bell sounds, signifying the end of lunch.

Dean swallows the bundle of nerves in his throat. They have to go, but Gabe won’t stop looking at him with those sharp little eyes. The mounting tension has Dean’s hairs standing on end, and Charlie getting to her feet to step between them.

“Gentlemen,” comes the calm, bone-chilling voice of Abaddon.

Dean never thought he’d ever be so happy to see her.

She raises an eyebrow at both Dean and Gabe, “Don’t you both have classes to get to? Or are you content with sacrificing the education of our students so you two can have a tea party with Ms. Bradbury?”

Gabe’s gaze breaks and he looks from Dean to Abaddon, his face bouncing right back to its normal elasticity.

“Yes, Sergeant Sands, of course, Sergeant Sands,” he salutes. Abaddon does not find this as amusing as Gabriel intends it, and crosses her arms tight over her chest until Dean and Gabe both march out and down the hallway.

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and walks a little closer to Gabe.

“How come you never said anything?” he whispers.

“About?”

“Your whole DTF everyone thing,” Dean tries to keep himself quiet, but come on. What?

Gabe simply looks at him and shrugs, “Never came up.”

“And Cas sleeps with guys too,” Dean concludes. “Is there something in the water up in Modesto?”

Gabe stops in front of his classroom, arms folded over his chest.

“Probably,” he nods. “Personally, I’m way more interested in how you know about Cas.”

Dean frowns, “You told me.”

Gabriel shakes his head.

That’s such bullshit. He totally did. He said it when they were talking about…

.. Oh, _fuck_.

Gabe’s lips curl into a smirk, “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

**oo**

After yesterday’s outburst, Sam decides to leave Dean be this morning, which Dean appreciates. He may not act like it, but he is in fact a grown man, fully capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much.

It’s not until a pulsing headache in second period and a desire to curl up under the bleachers that Dean realizes that he forgot to take his meds. And, genius that he is, he still hasn’t replenished his emergency desk stash, which means that Sam can never know about this, because he will never ever forget it. The last thing Dean needs is to be forty and still being hounded by his little brother to take his medication every morning.

He reminds himself that he’s okay, or that he will be okay, and loads up on as much coffee as his body will take. That’s bound to work, right? At the very least, coffee will keep him awake until he can get home and take his meds on the down low, so Sam doesn’t see.

Maybe he can sneak home before the game starts, pop his pills and come back ready and raring to go.

No, Dean realizes, he can’t. He knows by now that if he goes home feeling like this, he’ll stay there. It’s better to stick around after school and help the dance committee decorate the gym for the homecoming dance tomorrow night. So, he changes into his civilian duds as soon as the last bell rings and goes to do just that.

Homecoming last year was a New York Royalty theme, or something about as eye-roll inducing. This year, it’s Mardis Gras, and of course as soon as he walks in the gym he’s met with a faceful of plastic beads.

He hears Gabe catcall, “Show ‘em off, big guy!”

Forgetting himself momentarily, Dean gives him the middle finger.

“Gentlemen!” snaps Bela Talbot, art teacher and dance committee supervisor. “I ask you to bear in mind that there are impressionable young minds around. As of now, yours is an off-screen courtship.”

Gabriel loops his arm around Dean’s shoulder, “Aw, how am I supposed to resist this cutie pie. Look at this little punim.”

“I will stab you,” Dean warns. “I swear to god, I will stab you without a second thought.”

“That’s charming,” says Bela. “Meanwhile, if you two would actually like to lend a hand, feel free to start draping streamers.”

Dean ducks under Gabe’s arm and gives him a shove.

“Hey, what’s your problem, bucko?”

“Man, just,” Dean holds up a hand. “Stop. I don’t have the energy to deal with whatever the hell this is.”

Gabe’s eyebrows knit together, and he asks, “Are you okay?”

Dean’s stomach turns. He’s being an asshole, he can feel himself being an asshole.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

Dean can’t look back at him. He knows Gabe’s giving him a worried face. Fuck, how messed up does he have to be that he made Gabe of all people worry.

“C’mon, man,” Gabe tosses his head. “Let’s make ourselves useful.”

And now he’s pretending that nothing strange just happened, like Dean didn’t just have a fucking freak out on him.

So, Dean’s a shitty friend. Go figure.

At the very least he can hang up a few goddamned streamers without totally fucking up.

He falls silent, only speaking when spoken to, and even then his voice comes out soft, like pushing breath through his vocal cords is beyond his abilities. It turns out that he’s not great at twisting streamers, but he can’t even find it in himself to be frustrated anymore.

By the time everyone starts to leave for the game, Dean almost feels too tired to walk. He tries not to let on, lets Gabe jabber at him the entire walk to the football field. Already in line to buy tickets from the booth stands Charlie, accompanied by none other than Castiel.

Castiel Novak, in a pair of dark jeans and a leather jacket and a t-shirt with the fucking _Rebel Alliance symbol on it, is this guy fucking kidding right now._

“What’s up, bitches!” Charlie waves them over. “Lookie here,” she points at her _Empire Strikes Back_ shirt, “Twinsies. We didn’t even plan it.”

“You don’t say,” Gabriel smirks. “Aw, it’s like a big queer nerd beacon. Adorable.”

Dean catches Castiel glance at him momentarily, catches him lick his lips and slide his hands into his jacket pockets. For the first time all day, Dean actually gets a dull pang of something pleasant in his gut. His first instinct is to twine his fingers in Cas’ hair and hold on tight.

Instead, Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets and digs his fingernails into his palms.

Once they have their tickets in hand, Gabe suggests, “Okay kids, Charles Xavier and I are gonna go grab some eats and probably chong in my car, so will you two boners save us some seats?”

Dean delivers a glare to both Charlie and Gabe, who smile back like they aren’t the two biggest schmucks on the planet right now.

Cas replies, “Of course. Will you please go smoke first and then grab the food? I’d like some popcorn, please.” He takes his wallet out of his pocket and asks, “Dean, do you want anything?”

“I doubt they’re gonna have any whiskey, so,” Dean trails off, only to be met with Castiel’s blank stare. No wonder this guy got into teaching--all he has to do is stare his students down to keep them in line. Dean stuffs his hands in his back pockets, “Popcorn sounds good.”

“A large popcorn,” Cas hands Gabriel a ten dollar bill.

“Aye-aye,” Gabe salutes, and Charlie gives them a wave.

“See you on the other side, narks.”

And so Dean and Cas are left alone. Well, alone as they can be in a swarm of students and parents trying to get to the bleachers. Castiel looks over at Dean and offers him a smile. Dean doesn’t know what his face does, but it must not be good, because for the millionth time today he gets a, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Dean crosses his arms over his chest and attempts to make his way into the stands. Cas speeds up, falling into step with him.

“Dean, I know it’s not any of my business--”

“Bingo,” Dan snaps his fingers. “You’re tonight’s big winner.”

He can barely hear himself, barely register that this moment is even happening. Push through it, that’s how you get through anything. Life is just a series of endless shit you don’t want to do, but you push through it and you get to the end.

That’s a John Winchester original.

Dean leads Cas to a section of the bleachers where they’ll be close to Benny. As much as the players need their cheering squad, the coach needs his. Dorothy and Jo usually flank him during games, but tonight it’s gonna be Cas.

“Dean,” Cas says just loudly enough for Dean to hear. “I know that we’re not necessarily friends, but we are coworkers and peers. When I ask ‘what’s wrong’, I want you to realize I’m not doing so with any sort of intention, but out of genuine concern.”

“Christ,” Dean puts his face in his hands. “Cas, I told you, I’m fine.”

“But you’re very obviously not, so I have to assume that you’re lying,” Cas replies. “You don’t have to talk to me, which I know you know, so don’t interrupt me to say it.”

He gives Dean a look that Dean shoots right back.

Except behind Cas’ eyes there is genuine concern. The seriousness of his face eases, his eyebrows pinch.

“Why?” Dean asks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you care?” Dean scoots half an inch away. “Goddamn, you said it yourself. We’re not friends.”

He checks over his shoulders, making sure neither Gabe nor Charlie is eavesdropping before he continues, “We fucked a couple times, yeah, but you’re a good looking guy, you can get dick anywhere you want. I don’t know why the fuck you care if it’s from me.”

He stares straight ahead at the rival team’s bleachers. They’re playing some school from Valencia, and if Dean concentrates hard enough maybe he can will all the players into sucking.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice soft.

“Shut up,” Dean snips.

“No,” Cas clips back. “Dean, you can’t just have emotional outbursts and expect people not to be concerned, especially people who care about you.”

Dean digs his fingernails into his palms again. The doctor in the psych ward had once asked him if he self-harmed at all before the night Sam found him, and he’d replied that he hadn’t.

How the hell was he supposed to know that self-harm went past slicing your skin? He had one week learning about mental disorders in health class. That’s it.

Kinda like sex ed, it was meant as a broad overview more so than actually meant to be helpful.

“Dean,” Cas scoots a little closer to him. “Dean, you look like you need to be anywhere but here right now.”

“I’m fine!” Dean snaps, just in time for Charlie and Gabe to return, drinks and snacks in hand. Gabe shoves a root beer into Cas’ hand and a ginger ale into Dean’s.

“I don’t wanna hear you little creeps bitching about how thirsty you are halfway into that bucket,” Gabe explains.

“I don’t like root beer,” says Cas.

“And I don’t like ginger ale,” Dean frowns. “‘cause I’m not eighty.”

“I like ginger ale,” Cas perks up, and switches cans with Dean.

“I rest my case,” says Dean, and Charlie snorts.

The festivities get underway soon after, and Dean is grateful to be able to lose himself in the game. Except it doesn’t take him long to realize that Castiel is lost, and in fact does not know enough about football to follow what’s happening on the field.

“It’s okay, Cassie,” Gabe pats him on the shoulder. “We’re sucking a fat, hairy dick tonight anyway.”

“A hairy dick?” Charlie grimaces. “Please don’t tell me that’s a thing.”

The problem is that they are sucking a hairy dick, whatever that may be. Dean just knows it isn’t good.  He tries to explain the game to Cas, but the kids really aren’t up to snuff and the crowd is growing restless.

People are yelling on all sides. It’s loud, but after a while it starts to fuzz out and all Dean can hear is white noise and his heartbeat in his ears.

He’s jolted out of it by a man a few rows up shouting about the worthless piece of shit center.

“Good god,” Cas turns around in his seat. “Does he realize he’s talking about a child?”

Dean doesn’t know the man, doesn’t know the voice. It’s just rough, deep and just familiar enough that _worthless piece of shit_ hits a little too close to home. Without any warning, Dean shoots to his feet and starts making his way out of the stands.

All he has to do is get through this crowd. As soon as he gets through the crowd and back out into the parking lot, he’ll be able to breathe again. He’ll be able to calm down, drive home, take his meds and go to sleep.

“Dean!” he hears Cas call from behind him, the steady falls of his shoes pounding pavement getting closer and closer. Whatever energy Dean has left, he uses to run.

“Dean!” Cas shouts again.

He can’t talk to Cas right now. He can’t talk to anyone or do anything. He has to get into his car and take a few deep breaths, pop in Dark Side of the Moon and put himself back in neutral.

Cas’ footfalls get closer, so Dean pushes himself harder. He runs all the way across campus, to the staff parking lot behind the main building. He can see his baby, his sweet, sweet baby--he can’t leave her behind, leave her with Sammy. Sammy’s good at a lot of stuff, but he’s never been good enough for her. Dad never let him touch her.

Sam may have been everything else, but Dean was the one who knew how to keep the car.

When he finally stops, his hand on baby’s trunk, his shins burning like hell, his quads shaking and his stomach tight, he gets only a second to catch his breath before he’s throwing up right on the pavement.

“Dean!” Cas catches up only seconds later. The fucker’s not even out of breath.

Before Dean knows it, he’s sitting on the ground, knees drawn to his chest, taking in lungfuls of fire every time he tries to catch a breath. Everything hurts, but it’s a solid hurt, a physical hurt, one that proves that he’s still alive.

However unfortunate that may be.

“Dean,” Cas crouches down in front of him, barely averting the puddle of barf right next to him.

“I’m fucked,” Dean chokes. “I’m so fucked.”

“You’re not fucked, Dean,” says Cas, voice remarkably level.

Soothing, even.

“Hey,” Cas’ warm hands press to his cheeks and tilt his face up. His eyes sting, which means he must be crying too. Great. “Dean, can you breathe?”

Dean nods.

“Do I need to take you to a hospital?”

Words are too much.

Dean shakes his head.

“Okay,” Cas swipes away Dean’s tears with his thumbs and comes to sit on the other side of Dean, away from the puke. “You’re okay, Dean. You’re okay.”

Dean presses his face to his knees, not sure whether Cas is lying for the hell of it, or if he’s really just that ignorant. But then Cas just sits there while Dean’s breathing evens out, until Dean is nothing but a shaking sack of shit that can’t even watch a football game like a normal fucking person.

“Cas?”

“I’m here. What do you need?”

There’s a dim flash of light through the iron gray cloud before him.

“I need it to stop,” he chokes, and like that his tears start up again. That’s all his mouth will say, the only way his breaths will come, an endless chant of _“I need it to stop.”_

Before Dean knows it, Cas has both gotten Baby’s keys out of Dean’s pocket and gotten Dean on his feet.

Dean’s mantra breaks only to warn Cas, “If you break her I will break you.”

“Yes, you’re very intimidating,” says Cas as he stuffs Dean and then himself into the car. “I don’t know where you live, but we can go my apartment and take it from there.”

Okay, that’s okay. He’s been to Cas’ apartment, he knows what it looks like, the general layout, and knows that it smells like old carpet and microwavable lasagna.

He hyperventilates all the way to Cas’ place, making a total scene as Cas helps him down the hall, past a couple of his neighbors. Great, another banner fucking evening, courtesy of Dean Winchester, resident fuck-up.

“You’re not resident fuck-up,” says Cas.

He lands on a firm mattress and feels his sneakers being pulled off.

“I’m going to make you some tea, all right?”

It’s almost like it’s not even Cas anymore, just this faceless voice that’s taking care of him for no reason.

Maybe the angel that watched over him, the one his mom always talked about.

He thinks about Michael on his arm, the scars he covers. If he had anymore energy, he would start to cry again. As it is now, Dean can’t do anything but look at the brown water stains on the ceiling.

A few minutes later, a mug clinks on the table beside him and the mattress dips.

“Hey,” Cas’ palm lands warm on Dean’s stomach. “Sit up for a second, I have some juice for you.”

Dean screws his eyes shut and shakes his head.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice goes rigid, stern. “Sit up.”

Why he’s obeying, Dean can’t say. Maybe because that’s all he does, all he’ll ever do. He’s just a little machine, programmed to do whatever anyone tells him. He opens his eyes and lets Cas press the glass of orange juice into his hand.

Dean only intends to tip back a sip, but under Cas’ watchful eye he takes a few sizable mouthfuls before he sets the glass down on the nightstand and eases himself back down.

“Cas, could you, uh,” Dean swallows back the lump in his throat. Well, if he’s gonna go low, he may as well go _low_. “Would you…”

Why is this so hard to say?

“Would you like me to stay with you on the bed?”

Dean nods. Cas climbs over him, stuck now between Dean and the wall.

A few moments of silence before Cas offers, “I’ll hold you if you’d like.”

With the push from the orange juice, Dean rolls over and slots right up against Cas. There’s leather and soap and skin, all these wonderful smells that wrap around him just as snug as Cas’ arms do.

He falls asleep to Cas’ steady reassurances.

_“It’s okay, you’re safe, I’m still here.”_

**oo**

Panic spikes through Dean’s chest and sends him sitting bolt upright in his bed.

His empty bed.

… not his empty bed.

He looks up and realizes instantly that he’s in Cas’ apartment. He’s in Cas’ apartment in Cas’ bed, and he should be nestled right up against Cas, because that’s where Cas said he’d stay.

The TV is on.

It’s still dark outside.

He checks the time.

_1:48 am._

Dean stands, head pounding and muscles screaming out in protest as he pads over to the couch. There, curled up under a blanket, Cas lies sound asleep.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice comes out scratchy. When Cas doesn’t stir, Dean pokes him in the side.

“Wha--” Cas rolls over and opens his eyes. He sits right up as soon as he sees Dean. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Dean replies. “Cas, I’m sorry. Like, really sorry. This is embarrassing as shit, and I--you weren’t next to me.”

Cas cocks his head, “I held you until you fell asleep and then relocated. The last thing I want to do is overstep, which I’m beginning to sense that I have done on countless occasions in the very short time we’ve known each other.”

“Oh,” Dean looks down at his fingers. “Well, I… it’s just not good for me to be alone.”

“This has happened before?” Cas asks.

Dean masterfully evades this by asking, “Would you come back and not leave if I fall asleep?”

Bleary-eyed, Cas gives him a soft smile.

“Of course.”

Back on the bed, above the covers, the both of them fully clothed, Cas pulls Dean in against him again. They shift until Dean’s tucked away under Cas’ arm, cheek resting on his chest. Cas works his fingers through Dean’s hair and yes, that feels nice.

He still feels like he’s been flayed and left for dead, but for whatever reason Cas isn’t running. Of all the things they’ve done together, this is by and large the weirdest. They’re both still here, though.

“How come you’re doing this?” asks Dean.

“Because I want to,” Cas replies. “Because you need help and I want to help you.”

“I bet you’re one of those kids who tried to heal the baby birds with the broken wings,” Dean means it to come out light, to diffuse the tension, but even he can tell it just sounds sad.

“The emphasis doesn’t lie so much on helping as it does on you,” Cas’ knuckles stroke his cheek. “I happen to like you, Dean. As a person.”

“Why?” Dean wrinkles his nose.

“Because deep beneath your surly demeanor, there’s a good soul,” Cas yawns. “Pure, concentrated good. I can feel it.”

Well.

That’s a rototiller right over the heart, isn’t it?

Dean scoots out of Cas’ embrace and lies flat on his back, trying to keep his tears inside his face. He can’t cry again. He’s already made enough of a jackass out of himself for one night.

Cas sighs and rolls over too, lithe form now hovering over Dean.

“You are a good soul,” he sits back on Dean’s stomach. He splays his hands on Dean’s chest, their weight warm and soft and sturdy. “And good souls always shine through, no matter what package they come in.” He runs his hands up Dean’s chest, over his shoulders and down his arms. Dean is so lost in the sensation that he doesn’t have time to pull back before Cas’ hand hits the jagged ends of scar tissue on his forearms.

He feels Cas stop and shuts his eyes tight.

Cas keeps his touches brief, but it still doesn’t sit right having someone’s thumbs tracing up the thick, puckered lines.

Then Cas’ hands are gone, sensation replaced by knuckles dragging over his cheek. Dean can’t open his eyes, he can’t see the look of morbid realization on Cas’ face.

Two strong hands press gently to his face again, followed by two lips softly pressing against his own.

A kiss.

Cas is kissing him, and it’s not… bad.  Definitely not disgusting

Except it’s gone as soon as it came and Dean lets out a huff.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Cas above him, pads of his thumbs swiping up any remaining tears.

“What’s that for?” Dean asks.

Cas shrugs, “For being…”

Dean expects an end to come to the sentence, but it never does. Great.

Another moment and then Cas is back down on the bed, pulling Dean in as close as he can get, his hold firm but not suffocating.

Dean gets a few more kisses on his face, but after that stills. He won’t let go, and for that Dean is grateful.

It may not fix anything, but it damn sure takes some of the edge off.

That little light in the gray haze blinks again, a tiny flicker before it fades once more.

 

 


	6. Sorrow is so Peculiar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: continued talk of past suicide attempt, depression, medication, talk of drug addiction

The scars on Dean’s arms fork along his veins, evidence of just how intent he was on not coming out of it alive. Scar tissue is difficult to tattoo over, and Dean’s scars are ample enough that it had to hurt like hell.

Curled into Castiel’s chest, fast asleep and exhausted, Dean looks as harmless as Castiel has ever seen him. The muscles in his face are relaxed, his expression completely blank. Castiel lets his fingertips brush over Dean’s cheek, lets his fingers push his hair back and pour every amount of affection he’s able to pass on through osmosis.

Dean stirs and looks up at him, green eyes bleary in the early morning light.

“Hey,” he greets, and Castiel returns the sentiment with a smile. Dean proceeds to let out a whine and stretch against Castiel, followed then by wrapping his limbs around every part of Castiel possible.

“Dean Winchester, are you a cuddler?” Castiel grins.

“Shut your smug-ass face,” Dean grumbles and buries his face in Castiel’s chest.

“How are you feeling?”

Dean lets out a dissatisfied moan and tightens his arms around Castiel.

“While I understand the sentiment, I’m afraid that’s a touch unhelpful,” says Castiel.

“‘m better,” Dean mumbles. “Still shitty, but better, y’know?”

“A feeling I know well, yes,” Castiel lets his hands wander. Dean stills under the attention at first, and then out of nowhere he’s moving into Castiel’s fingers as they run down his neck, trace over the knobs of his spine.

At least his suspicions have been confirmed: Dean is starved for the touch of another human being. It’s just not the type of touch Castiel had initially thought.

When is the last time anyone touched him without sexual intention?

Castiel’s hands run down Dean’s bicep and over his forearm once more.

“Why did you choose Michael?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” Dean mumbles. “The artist was goin’ through pictures of angels with me and I liked this one the best. Didn’t even know he had a name until later.”

“Is your family religious?” Castiel asks. His certainly wasn’t. His parents were both eggheads, after dad died mom married a devout capitalist. Gabriel was his only saving grace, growing up.

“No,” Dean shifts. “My… my mom had a thing for angels.”

“Had?” Castiel asks.

“Yep,” Dean replies, short and sweet. “Had.”

Castiel hums and sweeps his hands back through Dean’s hair. Maybe they won’t talk about that one anymore.

“And aquarius?” he asks. “You had a wonderful artist--human features don’t often translate well.”

Dean shifts so he can display the water bearing woman, “I know it’s kinda dumb, but it was big and ornate enough to cover it everything up. Like you said, I had a good artist.”

Castiel nods and turns so he can nuzzle the side of Dean’s face. It’s a very nice face that looks to be in dire need of some attention. He kisses over the scruff on Dean’s jaw and over to his lips, where Castiel locks them together again.

Still pliant from sleep and emotional exhaustion, Dean lets Castiel roll on top of him and continue kissing him. It’s a good, lazy morning make-out that Castiel hasn’t had the privilege of indulging in for a long time.

And Dean is receptive--responsive, even. He doesn’t move when Castiel shifts to kiss down his neck again, over his Adam’s apple and down to the dip of his clavicle.

Castiel only just gets his hands on the hem of Dean’s shirt when, of course, there’s an interruption. His cellphone vibrates steadily in his pocket, and he shifts off of Dean, knees drawn up when he realizes just who’s calling him.

“Gabriel, what a surprise that you’re awake before noon on a Saturday.”

“You got Giggles with you still?” is Gabriel’s only response, and Castiel only blushes a little bit.

“I do,” he strokes his fingers over the denim covering Dean’s thigh.

“Good,” says Gabriel. “Then tell that son of a bitch to call his psycho dialing brother because I’m not talking to Fabio the fucking swizzle stick again.”

“That’s certainly colorful,” Cas’ eyebrows pinch. He didn’t even realize Dean had a brother.

A realization that spawns another, namely that he doesn’t know a whole lot about Dean, except that he likes cars, he’s a survivor of attempted suicide, and has a persistent brother.

After a long stretch of silence, Gabriel asks, “You didn’t fuck him again, did you?”

“No, Gabriel,” Castiel grumbles. “Believe it or not, I do have a conscience.”

“So you say,” Gabriel yawns now. “Go easy on him.”

“I will,” Castiel catches the yawn through the phone.

“Aces,” Gabriel returns. “Love you, Lay’s brotato chips.”

“I love you too,” Castiel chuckles and hangs up.

“You guys still say ‘I love you’ when you get off the phone?” the yawn makes its way through Dean.

“Of course,” says Castiel as he leans back on his palms. “Gabriel said that you have a brother. Don’t you and your brother do that?”

Dean lets out a laugh, before he stills and sits up, “What’d Gabriel want?”

“He said that your brother has been psycho dialing him,” Castiel

“Aw, shit,” Dean shoots to his feet, leaving his section of Castiel’s bed cold and empty. “You got a charger I can use?”

“It should be over on the counter,” Castiel gestures. Dean plugs in his phone and makes a frustrated noise. “Charge, you asshole!”

“Would you like to use my phone to call your brother?” asks Castiel, offering up his own phone.

He stands and hands it to Dean, who punches in the phone number into the keypad with practiced ease.

“Would you like breakfast?” asks Castiel as he continues into the kitchen. “I believe I have some eggs, but I’m afraid I can only scramble them.”

When he looks back, Dean is back on the bed, curled into himself, forehead resting against his kneecaps.

“Hey, Sammy,” he hears. “No, I know--I _know_ \--I sorta maybe… forgot--man, this! This is why.”

Castiel gets the idea that he should not be listening to this conversation, and so grabs the bag out of his garbage can and indicates silently to Dean that he’s going to take it downstairs. Dean gives him a nod, and Castiel leaves to do just that.

He doesn’t know a lot about Dean, would love to know more, as much as he can, but eavesdropping has never sat well with him. Gabriel used to eavesdrop on their parents all the time, and it never had a good end result.

By the time he comes back upstairs, Dean is on the edge of the bed, face in his hands and boots on his feet. Castiel approaches him with caution, and, when Dean doesn’t tell him to fuck off, he sits down on the bed beside him.

“I take it he was not happy with your disappearance?” Castiel ventures a guess.

“He’s such a fuckin’ baby,” Dean groans.

“He was worried about you,” Castiel offers. “I worry about Gabriel, and Gabriel worries about me. It’s what brothers do.”

Dean looks up and grabs the back of his neck with both hands, white knuckling his skin until Castiel lays a hand on him again. His muscles twitch under Castiel’s fingers, and soon he’s curling into him again. They both land on the bed, Cas pinned under Dean as Dean seeks refuge against him.

“You can stay here, if you want,” he says. “I mostly work through the weekends, but it would be refreshing to have comp--”

Dean cuts him off with a tentative press of lips against his neck. He kisses up Castiel’s jaw, over his face and even up to his cheeks. It’s not until Castiel grabs his face that he stills. A pillar of sunlight slashes across Dean’s face, illuminating the light dusting of freckles just under his eyes.

He swallows, plush lips parted as he draws in a shaky breath. Castiel smiles, because underneath the macho facade, Dean is quite pretty. Handsome, yes, and beautiful? Undoubtedly. But pretty is something Castiel never would have associated with him until now.

He pulls Dean’s face close and, as he did last night, gives him a peck on the lips. Dean’s breath escapes, sharp against Castiel’s face. There’s the issue of their morning breath that Castiel could do without, but Dean doesn’t pull away or bolt.

Dean just lets himself kiss and be kissed.

A few moments pass and they break for air, Castiel smiling only until he sees the look of abject terror on Dean’s face.

“Fuck, I gotta go,” Dean pushes himself up and off the bed. “You got my keys?”

“They’re on the counter,” Castiel gestures. “Dean, you don’t have to--”

“I do have to go,” Dean clips back. “I’m behind on a bunch of shit.”

“I was going to say that you don’t have to go through this alone,” Castiel remarks, stopping Dean mid-stride. “I’m always here to listen. And I know it may not seem like it, but Gabriel could prove to be more valuable than you think. He may be crude, and he may be a pain in the ass, but he is insightful, in his own way.”

“Dude, I get it,” Dean snaps. “What I don’t get is this savior crap.”

“It’s not savior crap,” Castiel frowns. “That’s not fair, Dean. I care about you.”

“Why!?” Dean shouts back. “Why? You’ve known me for two goddamned minutes and you’re acting like you like me? Cas, you don’t know a damn thing about me. If you did you’d know not to waste your fuckin’ time.”

“I _do_ like you,” Cas stands, keeping his voice remarkably level. He’s heard all of this before, from a much younger version of his brother; Castiel can now confirm that it hurts to hear someone you care for speaking about themselves that way, whether you’ve known them practically your whole life, or for a minute percentage of it.

Because Castiel _does_ care for Dean.

“Why?” Dean’s voice finally breaks. “I don’t do anything! I sit on my couch with my dogs and sleep, all right? That’s it. I promise, there ain’t no mystery to unravel. And there’s nothin’ left to save, so--”

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” Castiel’s heart seizes.

“Yep!” Dean throws his arms out to the side. “Welcome to the fuckin’ psycho circus. Like I said, you better get out while you still can.”

He starts toward the door, but Castiel gets there first, throwing himself between Dean and his exit.

“Move,” Dean orders.

“No,” Castiel simply refuses and holds himself steady. “Dean, you’re obviously very upset. Please understand that I do not feel safe letting you drive right now.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck!” Dean shouts and tries to push past Castiel. This is obviously not the first time Dean has had to fight his way out of somebody’s home. However, the moment Dean decides he’s going to get rough, Castiel grabs his wrist before he can strike, twists his arm behind Dean’s back and slams him chest-first into the wall.

“What the hell!” Dean grunts, trying to break from the hold, but Castiel holds him still in place.

“I will not enable you to endanger your life by letting you operate a motor vehicle,” Castiel states. “We will wait until it’s safer, at which point _I_ will drive you home. Gabriel will collect me from there and--Dean!”

There’s a loud crack as Dean smacks his forehead into the wall, and Castiel has to use a free hand to cushion the next blow.

He doesn’t speak as Dean finally goes lax in his grip, just holds him as his body starts to shake from the force of his hyperventilation. Deep breaths, in and out. That’s all he can provide, just a steady rhythm until Dean follows and lets the rise and fall of his chest sync with Castiel’s.

“May I have the keys?”

Dean offers them up with an unsteady hand, dropping them into Castiel’s hand. He lets Castiel lead him to the couch, sits still while he waits for Cas to pull on his shoes and slide his wallet into his back pocket.

It’s a tense drive. Dean looks out the window the entire time, awake but nonverbal except to mutter the occasional direction. Castiel doesn’t mind silence, in fact often welcomes it. Teaching rowdy teenagers for five days out of the week really makes one appreciate the quiet moments.

Plus, it’s easier to concentrate on the roar of this Impala’s engine. Dean keeps her in beautiful working order, even tells him so as they weave in and out of weekend traffic. He doesn’t expect a response, which turns out to be smart because he doesn’t get one.

As it turns out, Dean does not live very close to their school at all. He lives down in the swampy bowl of the San Fernando Valley, all brown and gray as far as the eye can see, in an apartment building that looks like it may have been someone’s dream destination in 1953. Dean attempts to let himself out of the car the moment Castiel parks in the garage, but keeps missing the door handle.

He’s at least able to walk on his own, and throw a resentful glare at Castiel when he opens the door for him. The resentment only heightens when Castiel insists on following him upstairs, but Dean seems to realize that Castiel is going to do what Castiel is going to do.

“If Sam and Jess are here, just be cool,” Dean’s voice comes out stiff, robotic.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t just casually slip the nature of our relationship into everyday conversation,” Castiel returns, only to get a tired look in return. “I apologize. I’ll behave.”

The door opens to a tidy, lived-in apartment, and--

“Whoa, hey Angus,” Dean chuckles as he’s pummelled by a giant English mastiff.

“Angus, get down,” comes a voice, and then a giant of a man with long brown hair comes forward and squeezes Dean tight in his arms. “Dude, you scared the shit out of me.”

His eyes open then and fall on Castiel. He doesn’t say so, but his eyes soften with gratitude, and that’s thanks enough. Castiel didn’t do it for the ‘thank you’ anyway.

“C’mon,” Sam leads Dean down a short hallway, and not knowing what to do with himself, Castiel follows. He notices a young blonde woman standing in the kitchen, who promptly stills at the sight of him.

“Hello,” he greets. “You must be Jess.”

“Yes, I am,” Jess’ eyebrows knit together. “Who are you?”

“I’m Castiel,” he waits for Jess to stick out her hand, but she doesn’t. Well then. “I helped Dean last night. I teach history at Sandover with Dean.”

“Oh,” Jess’ eyes widen, and then she says, “ _Oh_.”

“Is something wrong?” Castiel looks behind his shoulder to check for any clear and present danger.

“No, it’s just,” he turns back to Jess and she asks, “You’re the new history teacher?”

“That’s correct,” Castiel nods.

“Well,” Jess sets her coffee mug down onto the counter. “That’s not what I expected.”

“How so?” Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, no!” Jessica shakes her head. “No, it’s not you. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, I just--you’re a man.”

Castiel looks down at himself and back up, “Last time I checked, yes.”

The door down the hall shuts and Sam pads out into the kitchen.

“How is he?” asks Jess.

“He hasn’t been this bad in a long time,” Sam returns grimly, and settles his eyes on Castiel. “Thanks for looking out for him last night. He said you took good care of him.”

He did?

“Sam, this is Castiel,” says Jess. “He’s the new history teacher.”

Sam’s eyes go wide, but other than that he says nothing.

“Is everyone surprised to discover the nature of my gender and sexual identity?” Castiel asks.

Sam and Jess look at each other, both searching their partner’s face for the right answer before they decide, “No. No, not at all.”

Then Sam busies himself with a few pill bottles, and Jess offers, “Sit down, would you like some coffee?”

The pulse in Castiel’s brain screams out ‘yes’ in every way it knows how.

“Yes, please,” he manages to keep cool.

“We also have cereal, if you’re hungry,” she mentions as she pours coffee into a mug advertising, _Dog Mom (my child has four legs!)_.

As if on cue, another dog, a smaller dog, appears at Castiel’s side, head cocked and tail wagging.

“Baron,” Jess warns as she sets Castiel’s mug in front of him. Baron does not heed this warning, but instead decides he’s going to give Castiel a perimeter sniff.

“Does he smell like daddy?” Jess then sits beside Castiel, drinking what Castiel now realizes is tea. In reply, Baron hops up and puts his paws on Castiel’s thigh, tail wagging and mouth pulled up into a dog smile.

“Hello, Baron,” Castiel introduces himself then and scratches the beagle behind the ears. Angus seems to feel neglected, and so pushes his way under Castiel’s arm on the other side. “And Angus, yes. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“No wonder Dean likes you so much,” says Jess. “The pack approves.”

That warms Castiel slightly, and he continues to pet both of them at once until Sam emerges again from Dean’s bedroom.

“He’s probably gonna sleep most of the day,” Sam informs Jess, sadness and relief both radiating from his words.

“That’s all right,” says Jess. “I can just work on next month’s lesson plans today and run my errands tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Sam asks.

“Yes, of course,” Jess waves him off. “I’ll brother-sit today.”

Sam kisses the top of her head, “You’re amazing.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jess smiles back.

“Would it be all right if I said goodbye to Dean?” Castiel asks, not wanting to intrude any more than he already has.

“You’re not leaving yet,” Jess shrugs. “Finish your coffee, stay a while. Any friend of Dean’s is a friend of ours.”

Castiel notices Sam give her a not-so-subtle poke in the back, but decides to say nothing. He realizes he hasn’t even texted Gabriel yet, and pulls out his phone to do just that.

“My brother is going to pick me up,” he says. “Would it be okay if I stuck around until then? I can’t guarantee when he’ll be out here, but if it gets too late I can find a Starbucks or something--what?”

Sam and Jess both shake their heads, and like that Sam is off to get ready for his day.

**oo**

Jessica and Castiel (well, just Castiel now, as Jessica is fast asleep) are into their third hour of a show about people buying opulent log cabins in inconvenient locations.  It’s not exactly how Castiel wanted to spend his Saturday, but Gabriel, while very thoughtful for agreeing to come to his brother’s aide, is not the most timely human being.

Not that Castiel would be able to move anyway, as there is a mastiff draped across his lap and a beagle at his feet. Castiel doesn’t mind. When he’d lived in Ithaca, he’d had a small army of fluffy creatures to keep him company. He knew a lot of them were fleeting, that his hamsters wouldn’t last forever, that rescuing older cats and dogs was only a setup for heartbreak, but it didn’t matter. The company of animals is vastly superior to the company of humans.

Plus, animals always seem to be able to sense when they’re in the company of a friend.

Castiel hears Dean’s bedroom door creak open. Baron hops up onto all fours in an instant, and though Angus doesn’t move off of Castiel’s lap his tail wags so vigorously that it whacks Castiel right in the shoulder. He doesn’t look back at Dean or make his presence known. If Dean wants to talk to him, he will.

“Hey, Baron,” Dean greets and slaps his thighs, and all at once Baron runs back to him, barking up a storm. There’s an ‘oof!’ and then Dean’s chuffed, “Looks like daddy’s still got it, huh?”

Angus grows increasingly excited, though still seems to believe Castiel really, really wants him on his lap.

“Oh,” he hears Dean say, “Hey, Cas. I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Gabriel is running very, very late,” Castiel replies and finally looks over. Dean is in a fresh set of pajamas with an armful of happy beagle, who sniffs every inch of Dean’s neck and face. Pleased by what he smells, he lets out a howl.

“Hey, not inside,” Dean admonishes, but the poor little guy can hardly contain himself. “I see you met the boys.”

“Yes,” Castiel looks down. “It would appear that Angus thinks he’s a lapdog.”

Angus confirms this with a baritone bark of his own.

“You must have very patient neighbors,” Castiel remarks after Baron returns the sentiment with a howl.

“They’re usually pretty quiet,” says Dean, “Even this guy. People I got him from said he had nodes on his vocal cords. They had ‘em removed and everything, but he doesn’t bark too well. Since that’s like one of the things they’re supposed to do, the previous owners couldn’t really use him on hunts anymore.”

“They just gave him up because he was of no use to them?” Cas cocks his head.

“Yes sir, they gave my little baby up, didn’t they,” Dean asks Baron, not Castiel. “That’s okay. It’s their loss and our gain, huh?”

He kisses Baron on the top of his head and sets him back onto the carpet. How Jessica remains asleep through all of this is a mystery in and of itself.

Then Dean is right in Angus’ face, grabbing him by the wrinkly jowls and asking, “You making sure Cas doesn’t run away?”

Angus replies by slobbering a thick trail up Dean’s face, tail wagging so feverishly that he hits Castiel right in the face. Dean laughs and grabs Angus by the collar, pulling him back down onto the floor so Castiel can stretch his legs.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and Dean lets out a groan.

“I don’t know, man,” he says. “Embarrassed as shit?”

“Why is that?” Castiel stretches out his quads, which feel considerably lighter now that they’re no longer under Angus’ weight.

“C’mon, don’t make me say it,” Dean shrinks slightly. “I totally fucked up your whole night.”

“As I’m sure you’ll recall, you did not make me take you home, Dean,” Castiel offers him a smile. “And you didn’t ruin my night, as there was nothing for you to ruin.”

Dean glances over at Jess, “How long’s she been out?”

“An hour or so,” Castiel ventures a guess. “Is she okay? She’s slept through a lot.”

“Yeah, she’s a heavy sleeper, watch,” Dean cups his hands over his mouth, “Hey Jess, wake up there’s an alien invasion!”

Nothing.

“Dean,” Castiel folds his arms. “You were saying some very troubling things both last night and this morning. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean sighs and leans back against the mismatched armchair behind him. “I took a nap and… y’know, took my meds.”

He looks down at his fingers at that, and Castiel can’t help the pinch between his brows.

“Dean, there’s no shame in being on medication,” says Cas. “You wouldn’t think twice about taking medicine for any other illness, would you?”

“Trust me, I’ve heard the lecture a thousand times before,” Dean slides back into the armchair, colliding with the frame and letting out a pained groan.

“Don’t worry,” Cas smiles. “It looked cool.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean shoots him a perturbed face and resituates himself. “I’m not ashamed of it, either. Just… it sucks. They’re supposed to make you feel better, but if they don’t work or you forget to take ‘em for too long, you go low again.”

“That’s hardly your fault,” Castiel leans against the arm of the couch, but is not foolish enough to repeat Dean’s graceless tumble backward.

“Again, heard it all,” says Dean. “I been on all this shit for two years now. So far it’s done more harm than good.”

“You seemed to be in a good mood this week,” Castiel points out. “Last night being the obvious exception.”

Then he adds, “For the record, I like happy Dean.”

Dean lets out a laugh and tilts his head back.

“Sure as shit beats the Dean you met last night,” he mutters.

“Oh, I’ve yet to meet a Dean I didn’t like,” Castiel smiles back, relishing in the blush he can paint on this man’s cheeks.

“Will you cool it with the sister right there?” Dean nods at Jess, who remains unmoved.

But Castiel’s lips curl into a grin, and he asks, “Cool what?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, “You know what.”

It’s more of a threat than anything, but Castiel doesn’t care. He leans down very close to Dean’s face, and though Dean doesn’t shy away he does look very apprehensive as to Castiel’s next move. Dean twitches when he leans in close to his ear, draws in a shaky breath right before Castiel hums, low and thick, “I’m going to go raid your bedroom.”

“Wh--hey!”

Castiel cackles all the way back to Dean’s room, stopping short in the doorway.

“It’s not the room I grew up in or anything,” Dean jabs him in the side. “I’m an adult man, my room’s not all that interesting.”

But Castiel begs to differ. The walls are more or less bare, but there is a substantially-sized rack (housing just about every vinyl on the planet, Cas thinks) in a corner and a record player beside them. There’s a small collection of DVDs piled on top of a desk, which is unexpectedly quite tidy.

The bed is made up with a solid green comforter and plaid flannel sheets, nested in and still warm. On the nightstand there’s a lamp, a glass of water, a clock, and a picture of a woman cradling a baby in her arms.

A familiar-looking woman.

“Oh, that’s my mom and me,” Dean grabs the photograph and moves it to the desk. “She’s usually over here, but I--yeah.”

His hands come up to grab the back of his neck, and Castiel sees it. The water bearer in the photograph has the same flow of blonde cascading over her shoulders, and she doesn’t empty the water jug so much as she cradles it, staring at it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“What’s that face for?” asks Dean. Castiel responds by pulling him forward into a tight embrace, under which Dean goes still.

“Uh…”

“It’s a hug, Dean.”

“No, I know,” Dean’s muscles relax slightly. “... thanks, Cas.”

“I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” Castiel murmurs. And Dean is feeling better. There’s a little more light behind his eyes. His gestures don’t seem forced and his voice comes at its normal volume.

A lot of things come with being Gabriel’s brother, and learning to tell the difference between fine and Fine™ has been the most valuable.

Speaking of which, Castiel’s phone rings in his pocket and of course Gabriel would be here now.

“Were your Spidey senses tingling?” Castiel answers.

“Twin telepathy, macabroni and cheese,” Gabe chirps back.

“You’re a month and a half older than me,” Castiel shakes his head. “We didn’t even gestate in the same womb.”

“Oh, grow up,” Gabriel snarks back. “Get your tight little ass down here, I got shit to do.”

“You weren’t out doing your shit for the last three hours?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“If you’re in the middle of blowing him, all you have to do is say so,” Gabe returns. “I may be impatient, but I’m not heartless.”

“I’ll be right down,” Castiel sighs and hangs up.

“Skippin’ out?” asks Dean.

Castiel nods and lets Dean lead him to the door. Jessica remains dead to the world, but if Dean isn’t worried then Castiel probably shouldn’t be either.

“Thanks, Cas,” says Dean as he opens the door. “Seriously, for everything. I’m…” He looks like he’s searching for what to say next.

And then decides the only way he can properly express what he’s thinking is by leaning forward and pulling Cas into a quick, chaste kiss.

Oh, yes. Castiel could definitely kiss those lips a couple thousand more times.

“I’ll see you at work, Dean.”

“Yeah, I’m--yeah. See you.”

**oo**

Rather than take him home, Gabriel drives Castiel back to campus where, as luck would have it, his motorcycle has been locked up in the staff lot.

“Damn it,” Castiel kicks the mesh fence.

“Oh, quit your bawlin’,” Gabriel rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket. “Like we’ve never had to break into a parking lot before.”

“Not the parking lot at our place of work, no,” Castiel sighs, hanging onto the ancient chainlink while Gabriel slides a bent up paperclip into the padlock on the gate. “Suppose we get caught on camera.”

“Suppose we don’t,” Gabriel returns. “It’s the fucking parking lot, who cares? We’re not breaking in and spray painting dicks on all the lockers. Though, that would be pretty great.”

The lock pops open and both Castiel and Gabriel slip into the lot. “At least it was just the bike,” Gabriel points out. “And you got Dean’s dick down your throat again, so good for you.”

“For the last time,” Castiel turns his eyes skyward. “I did not have anyone’s dick down my throat last night or this morning.”

“Hey, no need to lie to me, hotrod,” Gabriel throws up his hands. “The guy’s aesthetically pleasing, you’re only human.”

“Which explains why I refused to take advantage of someone who was in an incredibly vulnerable emotional state,” Castiel replies and crouches beside his bike, checking for any signs of damage.

“Shit,” Gabriel sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “That bad, huh?”

“Remember when I found you in Balthazar’s apartment?” asks Castiel. “And you could barely speak?”

“No, but that’s the nature of narcotics,” Gabriel shoves his hands in his pockets. “You don’t remember a whole lot.”

Castiel remembers. He remembers following a seemingly endless trail of dealers and bookies to the ends of the earth, only to find his brother holed up in a lavish apartment in Boston, sickly pale, clammy, and out of his mind on whatever horrifying cocktail of drugs he’d put into his body.

The withdrawals had been bad, but making sure Gabriel stayed clean afterward was the worst.

“Well, trust me when I say it was just as terrifying,” Castiel mutters and rolls back to his feet. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Man, don’t go back to your apartment and mope,” Gabriel doesn’t let Castiel dispute this, just shouts over his attempt, “Because I know you, asshole! Come hang out with me. Get your mind off of loverboy.”

As much as Castiel would like to go home and sleep for the next day and a half, the allure of spending time with Gabriel is just as strong.

“Can we order pizza?”

“Hells yeah, we can order pizza,” Gabe smiles. “Extra large meat lovers?”

“You are what you eat, I suppose.”

Gabriel lets out a boisterous laugh and slaps Castiel’s hand in a high five.

The ride to Gabriel’s apartment is meditative. The moment he shoves his helmet on, Castiel is lost to the rest of the world. All of his focus is on the road ahead, on what’s directly around him. Soon thoughts of last night are gone, the memories of Gabriel shaking as he tried to scratch through his skin sinking back down into the depths where they belong.

That’s not here.

That’s not now.

Maybe he speeds through a couple of red lights, but that’s okay, because it makes him feel good. It makes him feel as invincible as he felt at eighteen, when he’d first taken flight on the solitary roads of upstate New York.

Castiel gets to Gabriel’s apartment first, his phone buzzing with a text that reads ‘ _picking up pizza, queerball_ ’

He smiles and unlocks Gabriel’s door, only to find that his one-person shoebox apartment is three and a half cat skeletons away from being condemned.

“Jesus, Gabriel,” Cas mutters to himself, and first things first, lugs at least a dozen black trash bags down to the dumpster. It’s work, but it keeps Castiel occupied until Gabe returns.

“Oh, hey,” Gabriel greets as Castiel passes him in the hallway, four more trash bags in hand. “I was gonna get to those today.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Castiel mutters.

When he returns to the apartment, Castiel washes his hands before he grabs two giant slices of pizza and joins Gabriel on his futon. Gabriel flips through channels until he lands on something he deems acceptable.

A few more minutes pass, and then, “Dean’s not part of your broken baby bird thing, is he?”

Castiel nearly chokes, and has to swallow a big bite before his throat is ready.

That did not go down smoothly.

“I don’t have a broken baby bird thing,” he finally manages to say.

“Ephraim’s parents were going through a divorce for the majority of the time you were dating,” Gabriel points out. “April had more daddy issues than a B-squad stripper--”

“I dated her for two months; give me a break.”

“Yeah, and then you were with the ice queen for three years,” Gabriel finishes. “Not everyone can be fixed, little brother.”

“We’re the same age,” Castiel reminds him, level, determined not to let the evidence of Gabriel’s accusation get to him.

“First I can’t say we’re twins, now I can’t call you little brother,” Gabriel scowls. “What’s your major malfunction?”

“Nothing,” Castiel shifts, stuffing his mouth full of pizza so he won’t have to talk. He knows he can’t fix people, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to help. He’s not great with people, and even though he’s gotten much better, it’s not as though he just doles out his friendship.

Dean seems to really need it, though, and Castiel likes him enough that he’d risk vulnerability.

Uh-oh.

“I like Dean,” he simply states.

“Yeah, I know,” Gabriel nods. “That’s not the issue here.”

“No, Gabriel,” Castiel sets his pizza on the side table. “I _like_ Dean.”

Gabriel just stares at him as he finishes chewing. He swallows, “Are you ten? Next you’re gonna be telling me you’re not up to date on your cootie shots.”

“Gabriel,” Cas warns, and his brother sighs.

“You stupid, stupid fuck,” he shakes his head.

“I can’t help it,” Castiel argues back. “He’s a good person.”

“Hey, no mooning on the couch,”  Gabriel snaps his fingers in front of Castiel’s face. “Listen up, Novak, ‘cause I’m about to lay it down for you. Not everyone is you. I pulled you out of the closet because I knew I could. I know you somersaulted out and haven’t stopped sucking dick since, but Dean’s not like that. If you pull, he ain’t gonna budge.”

“I’ve figured that, thank you,” Castiel brings his knees to his chest. “I’m not pulling him out, okay? We haven’t done anything he hasn’t wanted to do.”

“Yeah, you’re not any less closeted just because you’re sticking your dick in someone’s ass,” says Gabriel. “Just be careful, please? For his sake and yours.”

Castiel studies Gabriel’s face and finally nods, “I will be.”

“Okay, good,” Gabriel nods. “Now shut the fuck up, my stories are on.”  

**oo**

Castiel wakes on Monday to a torrential downpour of rain. Well, there goes his morning run, he figures, along with most of his hopes for a productive school day. There’s just something about rainy weather that winds up these L.A. kids and drains their attention span.

With his extra time, Castiel decides to stop for coffee on his way into work. He suffers through the line, and when he gets to the cashier asks for two black coffees, a blueberry muffin, and an apple crisp danish.

Apparently he has decided to see if Dean would like to have breakfast with him this morning.

Gabriel told him to be careful, and this… this is not being careful. It’s like weaving through intersections, or reaching top speed on a dark, unlit road: it’s really dangerous and irresponsible, but it puts a fire in his belly and that compels him to chase the high.

It’s raining harder somehow by the time Castiel gets to school. He’s early, and from the looks of the few cars in the parking lot, so is Dean.

In the rear view mirror, Castiel catches a glimpse of the giddy smile on his face and immediately tries to bite it back. He can’t let his emotions get the best of him on this. He’s reaching out to Dean as a friend.

Right.

Dean’s office door is open just a crack, but Castiel still knocks, as that’s only polite.

“Come in,” he hears, and nudges the door open with his foot.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets, only to see that there’s a cup of coffee already on his desk. Color comes up to his cheeks, but he decides he’s not going to acknowledge it. “I came by to see how you were doing. I brought coffee, but--”

“Dude, you brought me Peet’s?” Dean perks up.

“And there’s a muffin and a danish in there,” Castiel sets down the paper bag in front of Dean. “I’ll eat whichever you don’t want.”

Dean’s smile reaches all the way up to his eyes, crinkling the skin at the corners. He pulls out the danish and sets it on top of his abandoned faculty room coffee.

“Thanks, Cas,” he grins back.

“I figured since I couldn’t run, I may as well come by and see if you wanted to have breakfast,” Castiel promptly pulls the top off of his muffin and sets it aside. “How are you?”

“Had to chaperone homecoming on Saturday,” Dean replies through a mouthful of pastry, which he washes down with his still scalding coffee. “Other than preventing a handful of teen pregnancies, that was pretty uneventful. Slept, took Angus and Baron out to the dog park for a few hours, caught up on lesson plans. Pretty run of the mill weekend after you left.”

“And how are you feeling?” asks Castiel.

Dean pauses in thought before he decides, “Better. A lot better. Evened out yesterday, and this morning I’m feeling pretty damn decent, so I guess the new shit I’m on is working like it’s s’posed to.”

He goes back to eating his danish like it’s the best thing in the world.

“Seriously, man,” Dean nods and pops the last bite into his mouth. “You fuckin’ rule.”

Castiel smiles, “Thank you, Dean. That means a lot coming from you.”

They don’t mean to catch one another’s eye, but they do. Dean licks the remaining sugar off of his lips; Castiel sets his muffin aside and reaches back to lock the door.

“Oh, so you think you’re getting somewhere,” Dean smirks as Castiel stands and comes around behind the desk. “Pretty presumptuous.”

“I’m like that,” Castiel agrees and straddles Dean’s lap. There’s something about Dean in a good mood that draws Castiel in, that makes him think it’s a good idea to do things push Dean’s office chair back against the wall and sink to his knees in front of him.

“God,” Dean huffs as Castiel undoes his jeans and reaches into his boxers for his soft cock. He licks the palm of his hand before he delivers a series of quick strokes, grinning like an idiot as Dean gets hard in his grip. Dean lets out a shaky breath, “You don’t fuck around.”

“I do not,” Castiel agrees and sucks Dean between his lips for just a second. “Especially since I’ve wanted to do this forever.” His thumb strokes lightly just under the head, and Dean whines.

What a nice sound.

Castiel gets going, then. They’re a little pressed for time, and it’s just as well. There’s no telling what Castiel would do if he had Dean to himself for any extended amount of time.

But maybe he does show off a little when he sinks all the way down, swallowing until his nose bumps the softness of Dean’s stomach.

“Holy shit,” Dean struggles to keep his voice low. He achieves this by putting all of his pent up energy into pulling Castiel’s hair. Being the self-proclaimed cockslut that he is, Castiel moans into the feeling, vibrations quaking through Dean before he moves off and starts bobbing his head in earnest.

He pulls off to take a breather and glances up at Dean, who’s still got his hands full of Castiel’s hair. He grins, “This is a very nice angle, Mr. Winchester,” and winks for good measure. Dean makes a guttural sound and shoves him back, cock sliding down Castiel’s throat with practiced ease.

It doesn’t take too long after that, and soon Dean’s come floods Castiel’s mouth, warm and so delightfully _Dean_.

“You still taste very good,” Castiel pushes a kiss to Dean’s stomach and tucks him back into his jeans.

Dean’s fingers comb through Castiel’s hair, hands quaking and breath coming quick. Castiel grins and runs his hands up Dean’s thighs, content to let Dean breathe through his come down.

“Is it hard?” Dean asks, and then thinks better and corrects to, “Difficult.”

Castiel snorts and looks up, “Sucking dick?”

“Yeah,” Dean swallows, and before Castiel can help it there’s a filthy smile creeping up on his face.

“You’ve never done it before?” he asks. Not exactly surprising, but Castiel keeps that to himself. He just keeps stroking his hands along Dean’s legs as he replies, “It’s strange at first, but I liked it enough to keep doing it.”

Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Can,” he swallows again. “Can I--” He stops himself and Castiel raises his eyebrows. Dean’s face has gone from pink to bright red; Castiel knows what he wants, but he’s not going to give Dean the satisfaction of indulging him. If Dean wants something, he can ask for it himself.

Castiel rolls to his feet and leans back against Dean’s desk. His slacks tent under the swell of his erection, and wouldn’t you know it, Dean is staring. Slowly, Castiel begins to unbuckle his belt and drag down his zipper. Dean watches closely, but doesn’t move.

Then Castiel pulls his cock out of his underwear and runs his fingertips up his shaft, teases his head. His breath catches and so does Dean’s.

“Can I help you, Dean?” Castiel’s voice comes out a little shaky, but it pulls Dean out of whatever trance he’s in. Without a word, Dean sinks to his knees and moves forward.

“I wanna try,” he says softly, and Castiel cocks his head.

“Try what, Dean?” he can’t finish without smiling.

But without batting an eyelash, Dean states, “Sucking your cock.”

Castiel swears softly, and that propels Dean forward. He wraps his hand around the base and gives an experimental stroke. Dean’s hands are hot, sturdy, so careful to touch Castiel just right that he appears to lose himself in it before he gets started.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, just short of pleading. Dean wets his lips and leans forward. He sucks in the tip, presses his tongue to it, _holy shit_ , and pops it out again. Castiel can’t tell what face it is that he’s making, so he asks, “Are you okay?”

Dean nods, though still looks… perplexed, maybe?

“Don’t think too hard,” Castiel says.

“If you say ‘you’ll hurt yourself’--”

“I wasn’t going to,” Cas scratches his fingernails lightly over Dean’s scalp. “Do what you think will feel good, Dean. Just don’t bite.”

Dean shoots him a resentful glare for the last instruction and leans forward, this time sucking the whole head into his mouth.

Castiel lets out an appreciative sigh, and when Dean stops he prompts, “It feels very nice, Dean. Keep going.”

He sees the rapid blinks of Dean’s eyelids and lets out another sound as more and more wet heat surrounds him. He can see the tendons in Dean’s neck go taut, so he suggests, “You’re doing such a good job. If you breathe through your nose, it’ll be a little easier for you.”

A sharp huff of breath out of Dean’s nose and he’s ready to continue. He doesn’t take Castiel very far down, but he experiments with a couple bobs of his head and gets a little rhythm behind it. It’s clumsy, but that’s to be expected from a first timer.

“You feel so good, Dean,” Castiel combs his fingers through Dean’s hair, then braces both of his hands back on the desk.

Apparently that doesn’t appease Dean, as he grabs Castiel’s right hand and replaces it in his hair.

Oh, really?

Castiel swallows back a smile and tilts his head back, “You know you’re good, too, don’t you? Do you like it?”

There’s an affirmative hum, and it sends shocks up Castiel’s spine.

“I knew you would,” he groans. “You like making people feel good, don’t you.”

Another hum, and wow, it’s a little more challenging to hold a thought now. He keeps his hand in Dean’s hair, because that’s where Dean wants it, and nearly falls back when Dean’s hand starts moving along the rest of his shaft, slick with spit and precome.

“So hot,” Castiel manages, his words keeping Dean working steadily. “So hot, just for me.”

Dean glances up at him, freckles standing out against the flush of his cheeks, and Castiel’s hand tightens in his hair.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns. “You’re so good, you’re gonna make me come.”

It hits Castiel hard. He tries to keep quiet, but Dean pulls a few sounds out of him anyway. He tries not to fuck Dean’s mouth, but Dean keeps his lips tight until he’s sucked up everything Cas has to give.

He pulls off and pulls the trash can over to him, a long line of come and spit drooling from between his lips.

Cas doesn’t take offense. He spat the first time too, probably should’ve done the same this time, but what can he say?

He likes the taste of come.

“Okay?” Castiel asks, dazedly tucking himself back into his slacks and straightening up.

“Yeah,” Dean rasps. “You… you’ve got a pretty filthy mouth.”

Castiel laughs and leans back on the desk, “I do, yes. I notice you enjoyed it.”

Dean gets to his feet, neither confirming nor denying this assessment. Castiel grins.

“I’ll mark that down in your file,” he says.

Dean takes a swig of coffee and swishes it around. From the face Dean pulls, Castiel determines that he is not pleased with the resulting taste in his mouth.

“Not my best idea,” Dean sets the coffee down, and just to be a pain, Castiel comes forward and kisses him, snaking his tongue between Dean’s lips and tasting whatever flavor most foul he’s created.

“Hm,” Castiel wrinkles his nose. “Maybe it would pair better with a lighter roast.”

“Dude!” Dean gives him a light shove, and Castiel has to stifle his laughter in the crook of Dean’s neck. Except then the most remarkable thing happens: Dean grabs him by the cheeks and kisses him back. Dean is the one who kisses deeper, who wraps himself up in Castiel and turns a quick morning romp into something akin to tender.

When the first warning bell rings, it’s Dean who pulls back and rests their foreheads together.

This was such a bad idea, Castiel can’t help but think as warmth blooms in his core.

“Dean,” he says softly.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Dean replies and pulls back. “I gotta wrangle my advisory kids, prepare for rainy day hell.”

“Me too,” Castiel nods dumbly. “I’ll see you later.”

They both come in for a final kiss before Dean unlocks his door and Castiel grabs his bag and rushes off before anyone can notice.

“Mr. Novak, what’s with your hair?” asks Krissy Chambers, one of his ninth graders, as he opens up his room.

“The weather has affected my hair adversely,” he says, and swings the door open.

“So you are here, Mr. Novak,” says Crowley from across the hall. “Didn’t see you this morning. Your car, but not you.”

Castiel fires off a quick, “I was in the library.”

Crowley nods and pantomimes something in front of his crotch, “Always double check before you leave the,” he gives a knowing look, “Library.”

Mortified, Castiel reaches down and pulls the zipper on his slacks all the way up.

“Have a wonderful day, Mr. Novak,” Crowley beams and kicks his door shut.

 


	7. Down in Your South Seas

Dean’s stomach has been in knots all morning. On Sunday mornings, Sam and Jess go to Farmer’s Market, and today Dean asked to tag along. Not to shop for produce with them, no, but to bring Angus and Baron to the dog park right next door. He got both the boys in Jess’ car (which is more equipped to handle three adults and two dogs than the Impala or Sam’s Prius) and once at the park tells Sam and Jess to take their time.

Now sits on a bench in the dog park, wiping his palms on his jeans while Baron sniffs his way around a patch of dirt. Angus opted to plant himself beside Dean, maybe sensing the anxiety rolling off him, and lays his massive head on Dean’s thigh.

“Hey, bud,” Dean scratches him behind the ears. “Stickin’ close to pops, huh? Yeah, you’re a good boy. I appreciate it.”

“Hello, Dean,” comes Cas’ deep, smooth greeting. Dean and Angus both look up, and all at once Angus is on his feet, bellowing out his excitement so loudly that Baron comes bounding over. “And hello to the both of you too, gentlemen.”

He’s holding a canvas bag, out of which he pulls a tube of tennis balls.

“Oh, shit,” Dean lets out a laugh that probably comes off way too nervous. “You just became Captain Spaztastic’s new favorite person.”

Baron lets out a series of clipped, raspy barks and then sits patiently at Cas’ feet.

“Will Angus play too?” asks Cas as he pops open the top of the container.

“Ah, no,” Dean pats Angus on his thick, meaty side. “He’s more of a ‘curl up on the couch and watch TV’ kinda guy.”

“I’ve noticed,” Cas smiles. Goddamn, that is a nice smile.

Dean clears his throat and turns his attention back to Baron, now standing at attention at the sight of the ball. He goes apeshit the second the tennis ball rolls off the tips of Cas’ fingers, darting halfway across the park like he’s on a mission from god.

“How are you, Dean?” Cas asks as he takes a seat beside Dean on the bench. Close, but not so close that anyone would think they were anything other than friends.

“Pretty good,” Dean nods. “You?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Cas turns on that damn smile again. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Dean burns up under his collar at the words, but this thing that they’re doing, whatever it is… he doesn’t hate it. He hates himself for not hating it, and it’s making him want to tear out all of his hair.

Except it also makes him want to scoot closer and soak up a little of Cas’ body heat. October is by no means a chilly time of the year in this corner of the world, but he could stand a little more warmth if it was coming from Cas.

Jesus _Christ_ what is wrong with him?

“Well, I appreciate that you no longer mind being seen with me in broad daylight outside of working hours,” Cas folds his legs up on the bench.

“Ha-ha, you’re hilarious,” Dean sits back and looks up at the clear blue sky. Cas is wearing that stupid leather jacket again, and those goddamned jeans that hug him in all the right places. He probably knows they do too, and wore them on purpose.

Dick.

Baron comes back with the tennis ball, all goobered up with his drool, and drops it in Cas’ lap. Cas grabs it and hurls it again, further this time.

“So, I assume you didn’t ask me to meet you here just so we could sit in silence,” says Cas. He looks over at Dean with a certain intensity, but it’s not an intense face he’s making. It’s a happy face, a cheerful face, one that’s got Dean’s guts going gooey.

“Fuck, this was stupid,” Dean sighs and puts his face in his hands.

“How so?”

“Because,” Dean shrugs.

“Because?” Cas prompts.

Because it’s ‘fall break’, and they have Monday and Tuesday off of school, and when Dean remembered that last night he got a foreign pang of something in his chest. He’d taken his meds and everything, felt perfectly fine other than that dull ache.

“I don’t know,” Dean finally shrugs.

Cas nods, pausing shortly thereafter to throw the tennis ball once again. There’s a different smile on his face now, and Dean asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Cas shakes his head. Then he sing-songs, “Somebody missed me.”

“I didn’t miss you!” Dean defends just as realization hits and confirms yes, he very well did. “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. And just so you know, immature sixth grader ain’t a good look on you.”

“Oh, please,” Cas scoffs. “Everything looks good on me.”

He punctuates this with a cheeky smile, which Dean returns with a frown.

“Man, I swear, you and Gabe, it’s like you’re related,” Dean shakes his head. “I mean, I know you’re stepbrothers, but. Y’know.”

Castiel just keeps smiling at him, waiting for Dean to continue on making a complete jackass of himself. Angus puts his head back on Dean’s leg and noses at his arm. Out of habit, Dean begins to pet him, and soon his nerves start to calm.

“Must’ve been weird,” he says. “I mean, I got my brother when I was four, but he was a baby. I was his big brother, I looked out for him, that was my job. You and Gabe...”

“Not so weird,” Castiel shakes his head. “My mother wasn’t very maternal, my stepfather wasn’t particularly paternal; they were more involved with their work. It was only natural that we gravitated toward one another.”

Dean’s heart thuds steadily in his chest. How does Cas just _offer up_ information like that? Sure, none of it is particularly detailed, and it’s what you do when you’re talking to a friend you trust, but Dean only puts that level of trust two people on the planet: Sam, and then by extension Jess. Sam is his little brother, his war buddy, who stuck by him in combat and ducked with him in the trenches when everything went to shit, who’s seen everything Dean has seen, who knows everything Dean knows, the only family Dean has left in the world.

What ends up coming out of his mouth is, “My dad sucked too.”

Castiel looks at him, curious this time, head cocked and waiting for Dean to continue.

“I mean, he just wasn’t real paternal, like you said,” Dean shifts. “Drank too much, yelled too much. My mom was better.”

“She must have been a lovely woman,” says Cas.

“She was,” Dean nods, a smile coming up at her memory. “My dad worked a lot, so it was just me and her a lot of the time. And when Sammy came, he was… I don’t know, more independent? Like, after he learned how to walk and talk and stuff. We’d dick around and everything, ‘cause we were kids, but he got older and smarter and just didn’t wanna waste a bunch of time palling around with his idiot big brother, y’know? Kinda just left me with mom.”

Dean glances over and of course Cas is giving him _the look._

“Don’t do that,” he says. “I don’t take pity. Pity don’t mean shit.”

“I don’t pity you, Dean,” Cas sighs, tired. “I’m glad you’re sharing. For friends, we don’t really know a lot about each other.”

“Friends?” Dean asks, and okay that gets a reaction from Cas. Dean rushes to correct, “No, not like that! I’m just real shitty at making friends.”

“You became friends with Gabriel and Charlie,” Cas points out. “And Benny and Jo, and I’ve never met a teacher whose students actively seek their advice in the way they do from you. You’re a friendly person, Dean, and a good person.”

Two weeks straight on his new meds and that drunken, belligerent voice in the back of his head has gone soft. Where there would have been, ‘ _Well of course nobody wants to be your friend, you take everything so goddamned personally_ ’ there’s now a smaller, clearer voice.

_‘I am a good person.’_

“Thanks, Cas,” he finally says, scratching Angus below his collar as he pointedly refuses to look anywhere but down.

But then Cas’ fingers comes to scratch Angus behind the ears, their hands brush together and Dean’s lungs deflate. His lips start to itch, his heart starts to swell, and god there’s every fiber of his being crying out for Castiel.

Somehow sensing this, Cas scoots a little closer, so his knee is brushing Dean’s thigh.

“I’m not the best at making friends either,” he says. “Any friends I had, I had through Gabriel. Personally, I’ve always favored the company of animals over the company of other humans. We’re a fascinating race, but it’s utterly terrifying what atrocities we’re capable of on both macro and micro levels.”

Dean wonders whether or not he’s talking about a particular incident, but decides not to ask. They stay silent for a few minutes, neither willing to continue the conversation. Finally Dean asks, “You wanna play with my dogs?”

Castiel smiles, “I would love that, Dean.”

They get caught in a game of chicken with Baron, while Angus snuggles up to a bulldog under one of the trees in the corner of the park. Yeah, he’s basically playing catch with Cas, but it doesn’t feel nearly as lame as that. It even gets a little funny when Cas fakes him out, and Baron starts to chase him.

When Sam and Jess are done buying their hippie produce, Dean somehow manages to ask, “Do you wanna hang out?”

Cas shifts, “Dean, if you’re uncomfortable, I don’t want you to feel obligated--”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean snips back. “If you don’t want to you just had to say so.”

“I want to.”

A weight lifts off of Dean’s chest.

“Cool,” he nods. “You remember how to get to my place?”

He must linger a little too long after they say goodbye, because Sam honks from the parking lot after what only feels like a few moments.

He’s gotta play it cool, no suspicious behavior of any kind.

“Hey, isn’t that your friend Cas?” asks Jess, indicating the figure standing by a sleek black and blue motorcycle. Yeah, right. That’s Cas.

“Nah, he doesn’t ride--”

As they drive by, Cas gives them a wave and squashes his helmet down onto his head.

“Son of a bitch,” is all Dean can manage.

“You never noticed that he doesn’t drive a car?” asks Sam, shooting Dean a look in the rear view.

“He does drive a car,” Dean challenges back, sounding even to himself not unlike one of his students. “That fucking nerd drives a totally bitchin’ 1970 Mustang Coupe and he rides a motorcycle? That ain’t right.”

God, shut up. Shut up, shut up, what the fuck is he doing?

Sam and Jess even look at each other in that stupid way they do, when one knows exactly what the other is thinking and Dean hates it. He hates the invisible conversations they have about him, wants to know what’s going through their heads so he can inform them very calmly but _very firmly_ that there is nothing going on.

_No need to worry about ol’ Dean, he’s got himself covered. Back to talking about your organic apples and… yoga mats, or whatever._

Even his inner monologue is tripping over its words.

By the time they get back to the apartment, Cas is already there, waiting to be let in the building.

“Dude, you left after us,” says Sam, like Cas is the fucking Flash or something. He just got there like a minute before them, it wasn’t that impressive.

Except Cas gives Sam one of his timid nerd smiles and unzips his leather jacket and helps to carry the groceries upstairs and _fine Cas is fucking impressive but nobody needs to know._

It’s one thing if this thing just stays between the two of them. This way, if everything comes to a head, nobody has to know about it. Dean can go back to his life of booze and broads and everything will be just.

Fucking.

 _Fantastic_.

“Dean?”

Fingers snap in front of his face and Dean realizes he’s upstairs, in the kitchen, pulling the green tops off of their carrots, one by one.

“Oh,” he straightens up. “Hi.”

Cas is standing approximately five feet away from him, leather jacket hanging off his broad shoulders and a shit-eating smirk trying to hide under his weekend scruff.

He can’t look. If he looks, he’ll touch, and he’ll be made for good. Sam won’t buy into the ‘not gay’ thing. He’ll tell Dean it’s all because of something in their childhood, that he was only sleeping women to overcompensate and he wasn’t, he wasn’t.

“I gotta hit the head,” he says and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Cold water on his face might do him some good. He’s definitely gonna have to hang out in here until his dickhead boner decides to go soft.

He slides down the wall and looks down at the lump in his jeans.

“Traitor,” he mutters.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Hey, Dean, I’m running up to Sprouts,” says Sam. “You need anything?”

“Not from fuckin’ Sprouts, pervert,” Dean calls back.

“... Pervert?”

“Because you’re perverting the goodness of food and all that it stands for, Sam!”

“Okay, freak.”

He waits until he hears the front door shut to pull himself up and venture back out. Jess is at the dining table, laptop on and lesson planner open before her. Cas, on the other hand, has shed his leather jacket and kicked off his leather boots, and has parked himself on the floor so that he can play tug-o-war with Baron.

“So,” Dean plops down and hangs over the back of the couch. “You wanna do anything?”

Cas looks up at him, smile spread bigger than Dean has ever seen it. He could lean over and kiss that smile right off his face too, and he totally would.

Maybe in a parallel universe, he did.

“We could get lunch if you wanted,” says Cas. “Or we could see a movie. Or both, if you’re up for some adventure.”

“Are you hungry?” asks Dean. “I could make us some sandwiches or something.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees Jessica look up at them, but when he checks she’s staring intently at her laptop. Of course, when he comes back to Cas, he finds that Cas is on his knees, a little too close to Dean’s face to be platonic. Dean sits back.

“What kind of sandwiches?” Cas has the audacity to ask.

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs and hops over the back of the couch. “Let’s take a look.”

He opens up the fridge and peers inside. Cas comes up right behind him, because why wouldn’t he, and stands so close that Dean can feel the heat of Cas’ groin rolling right into the backs of his thighs, because _why wouldn’t he._

“Uh,” Dean swallows. “Looks like we got turkey, I think that’s roast beef--”

“I should warn you now that I don’t generally eat anything with a qualifying ‘I think’ attached to its identity.”

Jessica snorts.

“Do you have grape jelly?” asks Cas.

“Uh, no,” Dean frowns. “‘cause none of us are fuckin’ six.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jess chimes in.

“Hey, that’s enough outta you,” Dean snaps back. “And we don’t got peanut butter either. We’ve got that fuckin’ not-peanut butter that Sam gets because it’s better for you or some shit.”

“I suppose I’ll have a turkey sandwich, then,” says Cas and all of a sudden his body heat is gone and Dean can breathe again.

So, Dean starts constructing two sandwiches, one turkey and one (probably) roast beef.

“You’re eating the mystery meat?” Cas leans against the counter.

“Come on, it’s not like it’s been in there forever,” Dean shrugs.

(It’s been in there for a really long time).

“What, you’re tellin’ me Gabe never dared you to eat weird shit?” he asks.

“Even if he did, I’m not an idiot,” Cas folds his arms over his chest.

“Well, the world wouldn’t be what it is without morons like me testing mystery meat for flesh eating viruses,” Dean shrugs.

“I didn’t mean that _you’re_ an idiot,” says Cas, his voice going soft. Dean stops and looks over at Cas, and he realizes.

“I didn’t think you did.”

Huh.

Dean goes back to making their sandwiches, and by the time he’s finished and got them on the table, Jess is packing up her stuff.

“Where’re you going?” he asks.

“Oh, Ana is having a crisis,” Jess supplies with a tired shake of her head. “I’m going to go help her budget out Fall Fun Day.”

Dean’s heart leaps, then, just to keep himself from saying anything stupid, he stuffs a bite of sandwich in his mouth.

“Well,” he swallows. “Have _fun_.”

“Only if someone lets me _fall_ off a cliff,” Jessica grumbles, dashing to get ready while Dean and Cas watch her and eat. She grabs her work bag from the far corner of their living room and shoves her laptop and lesson planner inside.

“I’ll let Sam know where I am,” she says and then looks up. “Are you okay?”

Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, “Yeah? Why.”

“Just making sure,” she shrugs. “Cas, it was lovely to see you again.”

“And you as well, Jessica,” Cas smiles back at her. Oh, he is really laying it on thick now.

The door opens and closes and what happens next is not Dean’s fault.

Cas moves so quick that Dean couldn’t even hope to get the jump on him. There’s a hand around his wrist, and suddenly Dean is being dragged back to his bedroom.

“Dude,” Dean tries to stop him. “Hey, the fellas are gonna eat our food if we don’t--”

Cas cuts him off by shoving Dean into his shut door and covering his mouth with his own. Shit, they’ve been rough before, but the other way around. Cas gets to be the one stuck between Dean and the wall, gets to follow Dean’s lead and make these desperate sounds under him.

Dean’s arms do not come up and wrap around Cas’ shoulders.

Dean does not let out a soft sigh when Cas’ thigh presses lightly into his groin.

And Dean definitely does not follow Cas’ lips when they pull from his.

The sound of plastic plates clattering on the floor only goes to prove Dean’s suspicions. Baron and Angus both gobble up the remnants of Dean and Cas’ lunch. He should grab them and put them out on the balcony, should clean up the rest of the mess and tell Cas to cool it.

Except when Cas’ hand comes down to cup his semi through his jeans, he is quick to change his thinking.

“I missed you too,” says Cas, breath warm and tingly in his ear. “Waiting for Wednesday would have been agonizing.”

“Okay, for the record?” Dean feels he should mention. “I didn’t send out a booty call. Sex was not the endgame.”

Cas pulls back at that, lips a little pinker and eyes a little brighter.

“So, you just wanted to see me?” he asks, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Shut up,” Dean rolls his eyes and turns the door handle. What’s meant to be a smooth move ends up with too much weight on the door and Dean landing flat on his ass.

Before he can stand, Cas steps toward him, hands in his pockets and that blank stare on his face. He rubs a socked foot up the inside of Dean’s thigh and settles right over his boys. He gasps as Cas applies light, super fucking uncool pressure.

“I won’t lie,” Castiel cocks his head, a fond smile on his lips. “I kind of like you down there.”

Dean swallows hard. He tries to sit up, but Cas increases the pressure and arches an eyebrow.

“No, no,” Cas shakes his head, then removes his foot. “You’ll stay down there.”

Feet now planted on either side of Dean’s hips Cas crouches down slowly, folding himself up until he’s on his knees, ass hovering just above Dean’s crotch. Dean can see the outline of Cas’ dick too, just as hard and just as trapped as his.

Dean lets out a shaky breath when Cas finally comes down, eyes never leaving Dean as he settles back in just the right place.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Dean rifles off, shocks of adrenaline hitting him right in the bottom of his stomach.  

“Oh, I could never get enough pictures of you underneath me, Dean,” Cas plants his hands in the carpet, leaning over Dean. He kisses every part of Dean’s face, and just when Dean thinks he’s going to get one right on his lips, Cas moves down to his neck.

Dean twitches, hands moving to grab Cas’ face and pull him into a kiss, but Cas pins him down by the biceps and bites a hickey to life just under the collar of his shirt. The throbbing in his pants grows more insistent. He needs something, anything, to relieve the pressure, but when he grinds up against Cas, he pulls away.

“Trying to end the fun early?” he asks, firm but otherwise neutral.

“No,” Dean swallows hard. Apparently this is the correct answer.

“Good,” Cas smiles and leans down so that their lips are barely touching. “Because I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of things I’d like to do to you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean lets out a pitiful sound, nerves in his gut going from excited good to excited bad.

And not sexy bad, either.

Without another thought, Dean shoves Cas off of him and he stands.

“Sorry,” he breathes as he comes to sit on the edge of his bed. Cas looks up at him, gaze steady, neither angry nor pleased.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says then, and relief melts in Dean’s gut. “I want you to tell me when you’re uncomfortable… I don’t want to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

Dean wonders if that was intended to make his chest ache as much as it did.

He swallows hard and swipes his hands on his jeans.

“Would you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Just, close the door?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, “You’re sure?”

Dean nods, so Castiel complies.

Then he’s in front of Dean, on his knees, pushing his thighs apart and nuzzling his erection through his jeans.

Quick, nimble fingers undo his fly and Dean can’t help but lift his hips and let Cas strip him down. Very pointedly, he keeps his hand off of Dean’s cock, using them instead to keep Dean’s legs pinned to the bed. He kisses up Dean’s thighs, ducks to tease his sac with his tongue. An embarrassingly soft noise escapes Dean’s throat and he leans back on his elbows, letting Cas do what he will.

Cas is just… he’s really good at giving head. He knows he is too, and Dean feels kind of bad that he’s not as practiced.

“ _Dean I’ve been sucking dick since I was fifteen, of course I’m good. You’ll get there.”_

Of course Cas is hideously encouraging, even when Dean does shit like accidentally catch him with his teeth, like he did the other day.

Cas presses open mouthed kisses up his length and closes his lips around the tip, swiping his tongue through a bead of precome before he pulls off altogether.

Dean whines.

“Does that feel nice?” Cas murmurs. “You’re making all sorts of nice sounds.”

Dean’s breath hitches as Cas’ thumb presses just below the head of his cock, squeezing more precome out of him.

“I bet I could pull even more gorgeous sounds out of you,” Cas kisses either of his hipbones. “Where’s your lube?”

“You’re not fucking me,” Dean insists suddenly, head perking up.

“I didn’t say I was going to,” Cas replies. “I want to open myself up and ride your cock until you can’t see straight.”

A loud moan escapes Dean’s throat as he tries to thrust up into Cas’ hand, but Cas lets him go before he can get any friction.

“Lube, Dean,” Cas reminds him, and Dean tries to think.

“I think there’s some in the drawer over there?” he gestures to his nightstand.

Cas moves away and opens the drawer, leaving Dean hard and thrusting up into nothing. He barely even moves his hand before Cas clips, “Don’t touch yourself.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Dean lets out a laugh that borders on hysterical.

Cas looks back over his shoulder, “Do I look like I’m kidding you?”

Dean swallows and smacks back onto the mattress, but keeps his hands off of himself.

“You’ll be needing more lube after this,” Cas says, tossing the mostly empty bottle onto the bed so he can undo his own pants. He’s left in nothing but his Live at Leeds t-shirt, cock curving up toward the ceiling, hard and thick and it makes Dean’s mouth water.

And Cas is looking at Dean like he could eat him.

“What?” he asks.

“Shirt off,” says Cas as he reaches back to pull his own over his head. “I want you naked.”

Dean does as instructed and then sits up. Cas naked is a fucking thing of beauty, all lithe muscles and tanned skin. When Dean grabs him by the hips and pulls him forward, he complies without question--maybe because he knows Dean’s next move involves a mouth on his cock.

“Shit,” Cas swears as Dean sucks him in between his lips. It’s a strange taste, but good. He remembers feeling the same way when he went down on a girl for the first time, and he got used to it.

Just like he’s getting used to this.

Dean bobs his head, pulls back to lick and suck at all the spots he’s come to learn drive Cas crazy. Fingers slide through his hair, forming a tight grip.

“God, you’re so good, Dean,” Cas lets out a happy sigh. “So good for me.”

Dean can’t help his moan. Whatever it is about Cas’ voice, it sends chills up Dean’s spine. It makes him go harder, makes Dean’s fingers dig into Cas’ skin and take him deeper. Except Cas thrusts forward and Dean gags and he has to pull back.

“Are you okay?” Cas pants softly. Dean takes a couple of breaths, trying to keep his lunch down while Cas bounces onto the bed. He lets himself be pulled down into the sheets, on top of Cas, lets himself be held close and kissed despite the fact that Cas is a dude and he definitely does not fuck dudes in beds.

Maybe right now he doesn’t care so much.

Dean reaches back and grabs the lube from his tangle of blankets.

“You’re gonna prep me?” asks Cas, a smile on his face.

“Prep you and fuck you into next week,” Dean presses his lips into Cas’ jaw.

“I believe I already said that I’m riding you until you can’t see straight,” Cas’ tone goes rigid. Dean cracks the top of lube and slicks up his fingers. This is going to work a hell of a lot better than spit in a gym shower, that’s for sure.

A finger slides in easily, and Cas sits up.

“Give me some,” he swallows, hand out. “On my finger.”

Dean complies without a word, and soon Cas’ finger slides in alongside his. Cas’ cheeks are flushed, his chest covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

“Keep moving,” Cas huffs. “Keep moving with me.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat, his finger sliding in the incredible heat with Cas’. He even slides in another when Cas asks, growing impossibly harder as Cas arches into it.

“Goddamn,” Dean swallows. “s’it feel that good?”

Cas stops moving and so does Dean, and Cas sits up, “You’ve been shoving your dick into people’s asses for who knows how long and you never bothered to wonder if it felt good for the other person?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Dean pulls his fingers out of Cas. “I figured it felt good, but you act like it’s--”

Cas pulls Dean back down and wraps him up in his limbs. He rolls their hips together, crushes Dean’s mouth into his. There’s so little blood left in his brain that he’s starting to get dizzy.

And then he realizes that Cas has flipped them, that he now lies pinned to the bed with his cock sliding in the slickness between Cas’ cheeks. Looking up, Dean can see the foil condom wrapper snagged in his teeth, and he grins.

“ _That’s not how you’re supposed to do it_ ,” he mocks, and lets out a laugh when Cas smacks him on the side. He laughs all the way through Cas rolling the condom onto him, through Cas slicking him up with an extra coat of lube, but it gets caught in his throat when Cas sinks down onto him.

“That shut you up pretty fast,” Cas grins, though he’s a little out of breath. It’s a thousand times better than it felt the first two times inside him, maybe because they’re not struggling to prop themselves against a wall.

Cas presses all of his weight down, balls and cock squashed between them as he comes down and grabs Dean in a kiss. He doesn’t move apart from that, and Dean isn’t sure he can take much more teasing.

Cas barely pulls back, the tips of their noses bumping when rumbling out of his chest comes, “I’m glad you invited me out. I’d hate to be at home having to do this with one of my toys instead. Do you like toys, Dean?”

“I don’t know,” Dean adjusts under Cas’ not-movement. “I tried a pocket pussy one time, but shit wasn’t that great.”

He goes cross-eyed under the slow drag of Cas’ hips.

“What other toys?”

“Uh,” Dean swallows hard. “I had someone use a cock ring on me a couple of times. A-and a vibrating tongue ring. That was… _mmfuck.”_

“Interesting adjective, but I’ll allow it,” Cas kisses up his neck, over his jaw and to his ear. “I have lot of fun toys. I’d love to share them with you someday. Would you like that?”

Dean lets out a strained noise, and that does Cas in. All of a sudden he goes from slow drags to frenzied fucking and all Dean can do is hang on for the ride.

He actually kind of likes it. It feels good to relinquish a little control--refreshing, even.

Dean doesn’t know how much time passes between this moment and when Cas leans down to murmur, “Are you close?”

Dean nods.

“Don’t,” Cas instructs, “Not yet.”

Another noise escapes his throat, because Cas telling him not to only makes the need stronger. So, of course Cas leans back on Dean’s thighs, of course he wraps a hand around himself and of course Dean has to shut his eyes because he’s close, he’s so fucking close.  

“So good,” Cas purrs. “So fucking beautiful.”

Dean opens his eyes just in time to see Cas pitch forward, gushing ropes of sticky white all over his torso and chest and fucking christ that’s it. He doesn’t even try to stop it, just grabs his headboard as his orgasm slams through him.

“Fuck,” is all he says.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean rasps again and Cas laughs hot and thick into his neck.

“Did we break you?” he presses gentle kisses into Dean’s skin.

They may have.

Dean lets Cas kiss him as they come down, and soon they pull apart.

It’s kind of crappy not having Cas on top of him now, but he needs to get them cleaned up.

A quick trip to the bathroom and Dean returns with a washcloth. He wipes off his stomach and Cas’ hand, and snorts a laugh when Cas presses him back into the bed, kissing and nipping and nuzzling until they’re settled, until Dean has Cas tucked under one of his arms and they’ve both caught their breath.

“Dean,” Cas mumbles, sounding not unlike he’s about to fall asleep. Dean isn’t too far behind, he realizes.

“s’up, Cas,” he yawns.

“I like you a lot.”

Dean’s entire being freezes as the words, “I like you too,” come tumbling out of his mouth.

* * *

Sam gets home before Jess, groceries in his arms. The Impala is parked in the garage, Cas’ bike is still on the street, but the apartment is empty. Angus and Baron lie incapacitated under the table, plastic plates and scraps of food surrounding them.

“What the--”

He gets his answer right then. There’s a loud thud that comes from Dean’s room, followed by the unmistakable sounds of two guys having sex.

Sam’s stomach bottoms out and his face wrinkles up.

Jess was right. She was fucking right and now Sam has the emotional scars to prove it. Quickly he puts away the groceries, trying like hell to ignore the sounds coming from behind Dean’s closed door.

He stows the canvas bags just as he hears the very distinct sound of headboard slamming into wall, but doesn’t make it back out of the apartment before he hears his brother all but shout Cas’ name.

Well, so much for ever looking Dean in the eye again.

* * *

Dean wakes before Cas, naked and sticky and stinking like sex. When he tries to move, Cas lets out a grumpy whine.

“Move,” Dean mutters, totally not freaking out at the dude in his bed. “Dude, I’m like the Pigpen of fuck fumes right now, I gotta shower.”

“m’gonna keep sleeping.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“You’re such a fuckwad.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Cas giggles sleepily into Dean’s pillow, tickled by his own comeback. There’s something about him sleepy and naked that throws Dean for a loop. He didn’t know guys could look so… soft? He didn’t know that scruffy faces and wiry body hair and sharp angles could make his fingers itch just as badly as they do at the sight of smooth curves and full breasts and long, silky hair.

“You haven’t gotten up yet,” Cas points out, like Dean doesn’t know.

“ _You_ haven’t gotten up yet…” Dean shoots back.

Cas opens his eyes and grins, and _fuck_ if that is not one fine-ass smile.

Dean leans down and kisses the corner of Cas’ lips, knowing full well how fucking close he is to going over the edge of acceptable.

Except Cas gives him a shove after a second and mutters, “Fuck off, I’m trying to sleep.”

And for whatever reason, that makes Dean smile.

He tiptoes out to the bathroom, checking to make sure no one is home yet, and steps into the shower. The water feels good, the steam all consuming, so he can sweat out and rinse away that niggling sense of _No_ lurking under his skin, but it _won’t_ rinse away.

He’s not gay. He’s just… he’s trying something. Something he happens to like a little more than he probably should, but there’s no reason to get all uppity about it, right?

He washes quick and turns off the water, stepping right into a fluffy dark green towel. Jess’ are purple, Sam’s are red, and when Dean’s stay with them became permanent, Jess’ Christmas gift to him that year was a stack of the softest green towels he’d ever had his hands on. Simple, yeah, but the gesture spoke volumes. They wanted him here.

Dean hadn’t felt that way since mom was still around.

He ties his towel around his waist and stops cold when he sees Jess downing a giant glass of water in the kitchen.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks.

Jess chokes and pulls the glass away from her lips, coughing up all that went down the wrong way.

“Just got home,” she swallows. “Thirsty.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean frowns as his eyes settle on the pink box poking out of Jess’ purse. “What’s that?

Jess snatches the box and tries to hide it in her jacket.

“Nothing,” she defends, and then sags under the weight of Dean’s stare. “A pregnancy test.”

Dean’s eyes go wide.

“It’s probably nothing!” she reassures. “I’ve missed periods before, it can happen because of stress and I’m just… _great_.”

“Right,” Dean nods. “You know drinking a bunch is only gonna dilute your pee. Could give you a false negative.”

Jess’ right brow cocks and Dean shrugs.

“You think I’ve never sat with a frantic girl and a pee stick before?” he asks. “Hang tight, lemme put on pants.”

Dean slips back into his room, careful not to open the door too wide, lest Jess see past him and into his bed. He hops into a pair of boxers, then back into his jeans. He makes sure it’s his shirt he grabs from the floor and pulls it over his head.

“Cas?” he whispers. He’s hugging Dean’s pillow to his face, passed out cold, his legs tangled in blankets and his ass hanging out for the world to see.

Hopefully the world can’t see into his bedroom.

When he comes back out into the living room, Jess is nowhere to be found, but the bathroom door is closed.

“Hey,” Dean knocks softly. “You want me to run out and get you another one? Just to be sure, or whatever.”

“Dean, _please_ ,” Jess snaps from the other side.

“Sorry,” Dean’s stomach sours. “I just wanna help.”

“No, I know,” she replies. “It’s just, you’re talking to me while I’m trying to pee and it’s weird.”

“Oh,” Dean nods. “Message received. Don’t have to worry about me talking anymore.”

“Dean!”

Dean startles and mimes locking his lips shut with a key, except Jess can’t see that so he’s basically just entertaining himself. Just as Dean hears the sound of pee hitting water, his door opens up and Cas pokes his head out.

His eyebrows furrow, but before he can say anything Dean gives him a violent shake of the head and shoos him away. Cas tries to open his mouth again, but the toilet flushes and Jess interrupts, “Okay, I think that should be enough, right?”

Cas’ eyes go wide and Dean mouths very deliberately, _“Get Dressed!”_

The sink runs and then Jess opens the door. She looks neither upset nor pleased. It’s just neutral Jess face, which Dean supposes is an anomaly in and of itself.

“I set the timer on my phone,” she sighs and sits on the edge of the tub. “This is two years ahead of schedule.”

“You guys have a schedule?” Dean frowns and slides down to sit against the doorjamb.

“Well, we just wanted to have a little more money saved up before we started trying,” she gathers her curls off her shoulder and twists and twists and twists until she’s made herself a bun. “Sam got a lot of scholarships, but we both still have loans to pay back. We were going to get a bigger place first, maybe even a house…”

She puts her face in her hands.

“I’m not ready.”

Dean sits up. Three years he’s lived with Sam and Jess, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s only seen her cry a handful of times. Jess is down to earth, practical, balances out Sam’s touchy feely bleeding heart. Jess knows how to handle emotions, knows when they’ll help or hinder her.

But now she’s just having them.

“Hey,” Dean scoots over until he’s beside her. “First off, we don’t know what the hell that stick is gonna say, or if it’s even gonna be accurate. You’ll find out what the hell is goin’ on and then you’ll kick its ass. ‘Cause you’re Jessica friggin’ Moore and you’re awesome. And me’n Sammy may not look like much, but you could have worse people in your corner.”

Jess’ eyes well up and she slips off the tub, wrapping her arms tight around Dean’s neck in a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you, Dean,” she sniffs.

“Jessica?”

Dean and Jess both look over to see Cas standing in the doorway. Fuck, there’s no hiding what just went down between the two of them--Dean is freshly showered and Cas just looks like he just came back from scaling Fuck Mountain.

But Jess says nothing, doesn’t even notice, because nothing could be further from her mind right now.

“I could make you some tea,” Cas offers.

Jess smiles.

“Thank you, Cas, that’s very sweet of you,” she swipes under her eyes. “That sounds really nice.”

“No problem,” Cas smiles back and then looks at Dean. “Where is the tea?”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean’s brow furrows. “I don’t drink tea.”

“Helpful, Dean,” Cas rolls his eyes. “I’ll find it, don’t worry.”

He disappears from the doorway. Dean fully expects Jess to give him a look, to raise her eyebrow and shoot up to her feet and shout “ _I KNEW IT!_ ” because what else would happen?

Except this moment is wonderfully, remarkably not about him. For the first time since The Incident ©, somebody else has a problem that overshadows his.

The timer on Jess’ phone goes off and she silences it with shaking hands. She reaches up onto the sink counter and swallows.

Her face does something Dean can’t quite define.

She turns the stick to him.

Two parallel pink lines stare back, just there.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Jess agrees. “I’m pregnant.”

“I mean,” Dean shifts. “These things aren’t a hundred percent accurate. What’d you do with the box?”

Cas chooses that moment to reappear, a mug of tea in hand. “I don’t know how you take it, but it’s chamomile,” he explains, and then decides to join their gathering on the floor.

“I’m gonna be someone’s mom,” is all Jess can manage.

“My condolences,” says Cas, and Dean gives him a hard smack on the leg.

“Sam is going to be someone’s dad,” Jess realizes then and sets her tea on the floor. “Oh, god, I’m going to have to deal with Sam for the next nine months.”

“Is he particularly difficult to deal with?” asks Cas, leaning forward on his legs.

“Nah, he’s just,” Dean searches for the proper phrasing.

“Neurotic,” Jess supplies.

“I was gonna say ‘an uptight little shit’, but yours sounds nicer,” says Dean, which earns him a look.

The front door opens and shuts, followed by a very careful, “Hello?”

“Sam,” Jess pushes herself to her feet and steps over both Dean and Cas. The moment Jess is out, Cas closes the door and pulls Dean to his feet.

“I may have given you a massive hickey,” he whispers, and Dean whips around to catch his reflection in the mirror. Indeed, there is not one, but a series of hickeys on his neck, not to mention a rash on his face.

“What the hell did you do to me?” Dean whispers back.

“Does Jessica have any foundation?” Cas rummages through the cabinets and drawers, letting out a triumphant _‘ah-ha!’_ when he acquires Jess’ makeup bag. It’s filled with war paints and instruments of torture, and Dean wants no part in it.

Cas finds a peachy bottle of something and a spongey looking white triangle. He dabs some of the makeup onto it and pulls Dean in closer.

“Dude, don’t put makeup on me,” Dean frowns, still careful to keep his voice down.

“Shut up,” Cas mutters and swipes the peachy goop onto his neck. His tongue pokes out between his lips as he applies the makeup, and even now all Dean wants to do is back him against the door and kiss him until his lips go numb.

Cas does a couple more things (even something with peach colored powder that Dean almost kicks him for using) and then has Dean look in the mirror.

The bruises are gone.

“How’d you do that?” he asks.

“I’ve covered a lot of bruises,” says Cas, with a hint of sadness in the smile that follows.

Dean swallows and replaces the makeup bag, “From what?”

Castiel gives him a good, thorough look before he opens his mouth, then shuts it again. There’s a delay as Cas tries to find the proper words, and then he decides to say, “I was openly queer with an openly queer brother in a crappy place at a crappy time. It seemed like Gabriel and I were patching each other up every other day.”

Dean watches closely as Cas smoothes out his hair in the mirror, like he hasn’t just opened Pandora’s box of worms.

“That’s a mixed metaphor, Dean,” Cas comments lightly. “And you really should work on keeping your thoughts to yourself.”

He opens the bathroom door and steps out into the living room. As soon as Cas gives him the go-ahead, Dean follows him out. Sam and Jess’ door is closed, and from inside their room Dean can hear vague mumbling.

He’ll worry about that later.

“You guys got bashed?” he attempts to clarify.

“I prefer to say ‘we got the ever-loving shit kicked out of us,’ but no I don’t imagine that the queerness helped any,” Cas pulls open their refrigerator door. “May I have some of this orange juice?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dean crosses his arms over his chest, watching Cas search his cabinets for a cup. “Did you ever report it or anything?”

Castiel lets out a laugh, “It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing the police cared about. Plus, it was hard to know whether Gabriel was being targeted because of his sexuality or for being a smart-mouthed little shit.”

Dean shifts. He lashed out at kids like Cas and Gabe in high school, the nerdy kids, the weird kids, the queer kids. They were easy targets: the kinds of kids that made Dean’s blood boil because _how many times had_ dad told him he couldn’t stand a certain way, speak a certain way? If he couldn’t, why should anyone else get to?

He’s not proud of it, wishes like hell that he could go back and tell the fifteen-year-old version of himself that it wouldn’t solve anything. Maybe he’d tell himself that it was okay not to want to touch germy shit, or that it was okay to think Dungeons and Dragons was kind of neat, or that letting Aaron Bass kiss him under the bleachers wasn’t the end of the world.

And even if it was, maybe he’d tell himself that it still didn’t justify breaking Aaron’s nose.

His apology comes out raspy and broken, followed then by a “Nobody deserves that.”

Castiel sets his cup down on the countertop and places his hands on Dean’s cheeks. The warmth is soothing for a second, but not for very much longer.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Dean,” he reassures him. “It doesn’t do anyone any good to hold onto childhood mistakes. We all have moments we’re not proud of. I have them, Gabriel definitely has them, your brother, your sister… everyone you’ve ever known. But we’re human beings, and one of the great things about that is that, if we allow ourselves, we learn from our mistakes and grow into better people. You’re a pretty damn good person, Dean Winchester.”

Cas pulls him into a kiss--a dizzying, breathtaking, down-the-fuckin’-rabbit’s-hole kiss--and even with Sam and Jess right in the other room, Dean lets it happen. Everything in his head is a fucking mess right now, the entire day an unending highway of gut-wrenching twists and turns, so why shouldn’t he make it all the messier?

There’s a sickening feeling Dean knows all too well that surges through his chest, the feeling he’ll always associate with Robin, with Cassie, with Lisa. It’s that feeling that feels like he’s been stripped of his skin, that’s ripped off his ribs and muscles and left his organs exposed and ready to be picked out one by one.  

It sends a shock of adrenaline through his system and Dean pulls back.

“You, um,” he clears his throat, putting a hand on Cas’ chest to keep him in place. “You’d better clear out. Shit’s gonna hit the fan here soon.”

“I could stay,” Cas shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” Dean answers probably a little too quickly. “I mean--shit. I… I had fun, but this is just--it’s a family thing and it’s just a real bad time.”

Dean can’t look up. He knows the look Cas is giving him, he doesn’t need to see it for himself.

“Right,” Cas swallows, and ain’t that a fuckin’ punch to the gut. “Right, I’d better go. You’re right.” He doesn’t even bother to take the extra minute to put on his shoes and jacket, just grabs his stuff and turns to give Dean a final wave before he exits the apartment.

Dean lets out a shaky breath and wills himself to keep his composure. He doesn’t take antidepressants just to cry like a fucking baby when he has upsetting realizations. Half of him wants to run after Cas, to apologize and ask him not to leave, to come back upstairs and stay the night so that just once he doesn’t have to feel so fucking alone.

The other half of him, the half of him that wins, keeps him firmly planted until Sam emerges from his and Jess’ room, eyes a little puffy and and nose a little red. He stops halfway to the kitchen when he notices Dean standing there, alone.

“Where’s Cas?”

“He had to go,” Dean’s voice breaks, but he covers it quick with a cough. “How you doin’, dad?”

Sam’s only response is to stride the rest of the way over to Dean and engulf him in a massive hug, more out of desperation than celebration.

“I’m not ready, man,” he sniffs.

“I don’t think anyone is,” Dean gives him a few pats on the shoulder and pulls back. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re both gonna be okay. And as soon as that kid comes, the three of you will be okay.”

Sam nods and comes in for another hug. Dean hugs back, pushing Cas as far out of his mind as he can. His little brother finally needs him again, and he’s not going to fuck it up this time.

 

 


	8. My Insecure Condition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know that there's any severely triggering stuff in this chapter, but you never know, so heed below. 
> 
> warnings(s): drugs and alcohol used as coping mechanisms, drinking and driving, and a lot of bad decisions

Gabriel only barely opens his front door when his brother very succinctly says, “I need to smoke all of the pot that you have.”

Gabriel arches his eyebrows, needing only a few moments to study Castiel before his face contorts into a snarl.

“What did that little fucker do?”

“Nothing,” Cas mutters and pushes his way inside. He shucks his jacket and drapes it over the arm of the futon.

“Bullshit, nothing,” Gabe slams the door, sound pulsing through the air and pounding mercilessly into Castiel’s skull. He tries to rub the discomfort out of his eyes, but it seems there’s nothing thats going to keep him from being trampled by a cavalcade of misery.

He stinks. He stinks like sweat and come and Dean and that makes his chest hurt.

Gabriel, thankfully, senses this and steps forward, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and reassuring him, “You’d die if you smoked all the pot I have. I’ll grab you something good, okay?”

Castiel nods and flops back onto the futon.

He’s an idiot. He’s a total idiot, and what’s worse is that he’s so much of an idiot that he knew he was being an idiot and proceeded to be an idiot anyway. It’s juvenile is what it is--it was juvenile at sixteen, it was juvenile at nineteen, and it’s certainly juvenile at thirty-three.

“All right, kid,” Gabriel returns promptly. “It’s all good, we’re gonna get you nice and medicated, you can tell me what happened.”

“I prefer we don’t discuss it,” Castiel returns, sliding up into a sitting position as Gabriel takes the spot beside him.

It doesn’t take long. It never takes long to get stoned with Gabriel. Soon Castiel feels lighter than air, his body nothing but dead weight that keeps Castiel’s consciousness, his soul, his _colossal true form_ tethered to Earth.

Gabriel gets up, is gone for who knows how long, and returns to the futon with a bag of chips. Everything is in slow motion, but nothing hurts. Everything feels kind of nice, actually. He shifts and curls into Gabriel’s side, because he needs to hang onto something and Gabriel is a pretty good something to hang onto.

Even when Gabriel was sick out of his mind, shaking and pale and sweating through withdrawals, even when he was sobbing on the floor of the bathroom, trying to scratch through his skin, when Castiel yelled himself hoarse and commanded him to get through it, he did.

“Shit,” Gabriel shifts to accommodate Castiel’s sudden presence against him. “I knew it was bad when you forcefully encouraged my drug habit, but cuddling too?”

“I’m… ‘m gonna stab you in you sleep,” Castiel yawns, threat hanging dead in the air.

Another few moments of silence. Gabriel is familiar and warm, smelling as he always has, like long summer afternoons in the park and bicycle tires, like exploded firecrackers and late nights in the backyard looking up at the stars. Even his mom’s house doesn’t smell as much like home as Gabriel’s sweater does.

There’s a ginger hand in his hair, petting. Gabriel likes soft things when he’s high, and Castiel’s hair is quite soft.

“What happened, Cassie?” Gabriel murmurs.

Castiel grabs big handfuls of the ratty brown sweater, squeezes his eyes shut, and his body tries to hurt, it really does, but his mind is so far up in the stratosphere that it’s just not happening.

“I’m an idiot,” is all he says. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Well, I knew that already,” Gabe hums. “You fucking reek, man.”

“Because I just came from fucking Dean,” Castiel explains.

“Well goddamn, I’d hope so. Fucker at least owes you that.”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” Cas yawns. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Of course you can, Cassie,” Gabriel’s grip tightens around him. “And you just say the word, that guy gets a shiv to the spine.”

“That will not be necessary,” Castiel reassures him through another yawn. “I am very sleepy, however. What did you give me?”

“A big hit of Sweep Me Away Sandman,” Gabriel replies.

Castiel doesn’t even get to ask if that’s a real thing before his mind disconnects from his mouth, and he passes out right there on his brother’s chest.

**oo**

Avoiding Dean is at least easy at work. Being that they’re in different departments, they do not have to see each other at all during the school day, and that’s exactly how Castiel intends to handle this.

Naturally, he maintains a level of professionalism--they are at work, after all--but when he can, he evades.

It’s an effective system for about a week, and then the texts start coming.

_‘hey havnt seen you around in a while.’_

_‘I’ve been really busy.’_

_‘thats cool.. dont work too hard though’_

_‘I’ll keep that in mind.’_

It ties Castiel’s stomach up in knots, but that’s what he has to do. That’s the only way he can avoid falling into old habits. He blocked Meg’s number after they broke up, lest he once again get swindled back into the relationship. Actually, Gabriel had recovered enough to intervene by that point, and told her to go fuck herself.

With Meg he knew what he was getting into. He knew she was prickly, that she was mean, that she looked out for herself first and others second, if at all, but he liked her. And it doesn’t matter what Gabriel says, because Castiel knew for a fact that she liked him too.

It’s not until midway through the second week of avoiding that Castiel stops at 7-11 on the way home and buys the first pack of cigarettes he’s owned in a decade.

He doesn’t even wait until he gets home, doesn’t get in the car, he just slices through the plastic with his thumbnail and lights up right there outside the store. Every itch under his skin has suddenly been soothed, and he starts to wonder why he ever gave this up in the first place.

Unfortunately, Castiel has come to terms with the fact that he cannot run forever. There’s an all-staff after school meeting taking place the Friday before Halloween, and of course Dean has to take the seat right next to him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he kicks his feet up on the chair in front of him. He has two cups of coffee in his hands from that good coffee place down the street. “You take it black, right?”

Castiel stares at the cup for a good few moments. What the hell is Dean playing at?

He looks up and says, “It’s a little late for coffee, isn’t it?”

Dean shrugs and checks his watch. “Almost two o’clock… how sensitive are you to caffeine?”

“I was a graduate student, my blood is mostly caffeine,” Castiel accepts the paper cup Dean offers him.  

“Blueberry muffin?” Dean then holds up a paper bag.

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Dean frowns, pointedly not looking at Castiel. He then sits back, defeated. “I don’t know… I think you might be pissed at me.”

“And you thought caffeine and sugar were going to help that?” Castiel asks, neither confirming nor denying Dean’s suspicions.

“I don’t know,” Dean repeats, sinking further and further into his chair. “Look, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry, okay?”

He doesn’t--what?

Castiel narrows his eyes, “Dean, at the risk of sounding like a poorly scripted sitcom wife, I don’t believe you can apologize for something if you don’t know what it is that’s upset someone. Apologies insinuate that you aren’t going to make the same mistake again, but if you don’t know what mistake you’re making then how can you be so sure that you won’t repeat it?”

Dean looks over at him, coffee clutched close to his chest. Oh, no.

Oh _god_ , that look right there may as well be Kryptonite. Castiel takes a deep breath and turns back toward the front of the multi-purpose room. Without turning back to him, Castiel says, “Thank you very much for the coffee and muffin. It doesn’t serve as an apology, but--”

“Whoa, it’s not an apology,” Dean sits back up. “I… I don’t know, I guess I hadn’t talked to you in a while and I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Hey-o, kids, room for two more?” Gabriel whistles and hops over the back of the empty chair beside Castiel. Charlie plops down on the other side of Dean and gives them both a cheerful wave.

“What the hell,” Gabriel smacks Castiel on the arm. “You got coffee, why didn’t you ask if I wanted anything?”

“Because my blood sugar was very low and I needed something quick,” Castiel offers, not wanting Dean to open himself up to an ass-kicking. So far, Gabriel has done a good job of pretending he doesn’t know about Castiel and Dean’s… _affair_ , but it doesn’t take much to provoke him into protective brother mode.

Then again, after all they’ve been through, protecting each other is second nature by now.

“At least let me have some of the muffin,” Gabriel snatches the paper bag and reaches inside.

“So ‘low blood sugar’ means nothing to you,” Castiel narrows his eyes.

“All right, everyone,” Cain steps up to the podium. “Let’s get started everyone.”

The meeting is the dictionary definition of tedium. Charlie plays games on her phone under her clipboard, while Dean tries not to doze. On Castiel’s other side, Gabriel’s leg vibrates--not bounces, but vibrates. It’s a mystery why Gabriel even got into teaching; he couldn’t sit still as a student, so why would he think he could sit still as a teacher?

He loosens his tie and rolls up his shirt sleeves, closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. Many people claim that meditation is about clearing the mind, about finding the silence within yourself. Castiel knows that when Gabriel shuts his eyes and ears to his surroundings, he hears music. He sees music. He always has.

If you listen closely, you can hear him start to keep time with his hands and feet.

It used to drive their parents and teachers crazy, but Castiel knew it was the only way Gabriel could keep himself in one spot for long periods of time.

Dean’s head hits Castiel’s shoulder, and immediately Castiel prods him awake. Dean sits up quick, rubbing the crust out of his eyes as he tries to pretend he wasn’t just doing the thing he was very obviously doing.

The worst part is that part of Castiel wants to drape his arm around Dean’s shoulders and pull him close, to lace their fingers together and let Dean fall asleep again, because he has missed Dean. When all is said and done, being close to Dean feels good, so much better than most anything else has in recent memory.

A small wave of arousal ghosts through his system, and Castiel lets out a loud sigh.

That’s it: he needs to get laid.

It’s nearly five o’clock when they’re released, and Gabriel bolts for the door like one of their students. Castiel, also antsy from sitting still for so long, follows close behind him and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Can we go out tonight?” he asks.

Gabriel cocks an eyebrow, “Out? Like, to drink?”

“Like, to anything,” Castiel says, and then he sees it click on Gabriel’s face.

“Well, well,” Gabriel cuffs him on the arm. “Look at you, all ready to explore the big kid side of this town.”

“Who’s doing what?”

Gabriel and Castiel look over to see Dean and Charlie standing beside them. Gabriel drapes an arm around Cas’ shoulder and says, “Brosef and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and I are gonna go out and see if we can’t get ourselves a little action.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and looks at Castiel, “You a big club scene kind of guy?”

“No, but I have been known to fuck strangers in public bathrooms,” Castiel shrugs, and Dean meets his eye. Whether he’s begging Castiel to keep his mouth shut or issuing a challenge, Castiel can’t say.

Charlie, true to her nature, pipes up, “Well, that sounds adventurous.

“Yeah, Cassie always gets the good-looking ones,” Gabriel grabs Castiel’s shoulder.

“What a shame,” Charlie gives a fond shake of her head.

“Actually, that guy was kind of an asshole,” Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. He feels Gabriel go tense beside him, only for a fraction of a second, noticeable to nobody but Castiel.

“You mean you didn’t meet your soulmate in a public bathroom?” Charlie slaps a hand to the side of her face. “There’s a shocker.”

Castiel nods, “Used an insult as a pick-up line, fucked me against a wall without the common decency to give me a reach-around--”

“Wow,” Gabriel’s eyes go wide as Charlie shouts, “TMI!”

“But despite all of that, I kind of liked him,” Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes off Dean. “And I hooked up with him again and again and again, all so he could tell me he _had fun_ \--”

“Hey, Cassie, I think you made your point,” Gabriel’s voice takes on a strange tone and Castiel comes out of his head. It’s just him, Gabriel, and Charlie now, as Dean takes off toward the gym with large strides.

Crap, maybe that did go a little too far.

“Sheesh,” Charlie shakes her head as she watches Dean go. “You’d think hanging out with three queers all day would sort of ease him into hearing about two dudes doing the do.”

She then lets out a sigh and pats Castiel on the shoulder, “Sounds like a night out is what you need.”

* * *

Coffee and a muffin had been Dean’s best idea too.

Because even though Dean knows family comes first, he felt kind of bad for giving Cas the shaft the other day… no pun intended. Yeah, he’s a dude, but he’s a cool dude, and Dean really does like him. Come on, he’s a nice guy, he likes cars, he rides a motorcycle, he likes his dogs.

Hence, cool dude.

And Dean figured he’d be cool to this cool dude and get him a muffin and coffee, because Dean has had a history of being kind of not cool to him.

He didn’t actually expect Cas to be upset. A little pissed, maybe, but Cas isn’t the kind of guy that gets outright upset.

Go figure, Dean upsets the only guy on the planet who doesn’t get upset.

Dean slams the apartment door behind him before he thinks better of it, prompting a concerned, “Dude, are you okay?” from Sam. He sits on the couch, office clothes already forgone for jeans and a t-shirt, with a beer in hand.

That. That is exactly what he needs.

“Fine,” Dean drops his bag and grabs a beer out of the fridge. He knows he’s not supposed to drink when he’s feeling like this, but fuck it.

Just--fuck it.

“Whoa, dude,” Sam stands. Dean wastes no time, just tips the bottle back and downs as much as he can before Sam intervenes. “Dean, what the hell!”

“Leave me alone!” Dean smacks his hand away. “Fuck, could you back off my nuts for like five minutes?”

He tips back the rest of his beer and smacks the bottle onto the counter. When he moves in for another, Sam dives in front of him to block to fridge.

“Sam, move!”

“Fuck you,” Sam snaps. Dean tries to push him away, but Sam keeps him at bay.

“Dude, what is your issue?” he asks, and just as Dean opens his mouth to shout back, Sam adds, “Tell me, don’t shout it at me.”

Dean takes a big breath.

“I’m not exactly havin’ a banner day here, Sammy,” he tries very, very hard to keep himself level. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to grab another beer and drown myself.”

Dean tries to get past again but Sam puts his free hand on his chest and holds him back.

“I swear to god, I will 5150 your ass so fucking fast,” Sam warns.

It’s not an empty threat, either. Sam doesn’t seem to care that he’s got no authority or ability to detain Dean, but he will get Doctor Barnes on the phone and she will have his ass in a psych ward by the end of the night.

Dean takes another breath, which actually does soothe him a little--or maybe that’s the booze. Whatever it is, it doesn’t help enough.

Just a little.

The thing is, Sammy is actually kind of insightful about this shit. He’s also never going to move away from the fridge until Dean talks.

Fucker.

“It’s,” he clears his throat. “It’s not a big deal, okay? I’ve been seeing some--this woman… kinda. From work.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, “Kinda a woman, or kinda from work?”

“Kind of been seeing her!” Dean snaps. “Jesus.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam puts up his hands. “Sorry, go ahead.”

Dean lets out a breath and looks down. Angus sits beside him, keeping close. When he notices Dean looking at him, he ducks his head under Dean’s hand for a pet.

Aw, fuck.

Dean sinks down to the floor and lets Angus lick his face, sits back and lets Angus drape himself over his legs.

Sam joins them on the floor, and not one to be left out, Baron bounds over and hops into his lap.

More than anything, this makes him feel better.

“What’s going on, man?” Sam asks.

Dean lets out a breath and buries his fingers in Angus’ fur.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, and then decides, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay,” Sam nods. “What do you need from me? And don’t say ‘a beer’.”

“Dammit,” Dean mutters, smiling when Sam snorts.

It’s not a big laugh, but big or small, making Sammy laugh has always made him feel good.

“We went to Jess’ doctor today,” Sam offers.

“Yeah?” Dean looks up. “Man, don’t leave me hangin’.’’

Sam goes into detail about the ultrasound, despite there not yet being much detail into which he can go. Jess has basically got a little peanut inside her, and even though Sam jokes about she could be baking up a frog in there and we wouldn’t even know yet, Dean can tell he’s excited.

Good, because Dean is excited too. He’s excited that there’s going to be a new person in their family, and not just a person, but a baby, a kid, Dean’s niece or nephew. Seven and a half months from now, he’s going to be someone’s uncle. Dean didn’t have any uncles, so he’s not sure what exactly the job description entails, but it’s gotta involve doing stupid fun shit and ice cream.

That’s gonna be sweet.

And even better, Sam gets to have a normal life, just like he always wanted. No deadbeat dad gone for days at a time, hopping from job to job, no sick mom, no brother with a broken brain...

The ache returns to Dean’s chest and he swallows hard.

“I think I’m gonna take the boys out for a walk,” he says and pats Angus on the flank. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” asks Sam. It’s not impossible to handle both the boys at once, but it’s also not Dean’s favorite thing in the world.

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head. “I think I’m just gonna take ‘em out for a little while. Kinda think I need to be by myself for a while.”

“Okay,” Sam nods. “Just… take your phone.”

Dean musters up his strength, standing with his back to the proverbial crumbling dam in his mind, and winks, “You got it, warden.”

**oo**

His body exhausted from the day, Dean falls into bed at nine-thirty and promptly knocks the hell out. He also forgets to shut his door, so when his phone rings and jolts him out of sleep, he’s got Angus and Baron on either side of him, Baron fast asleep and Angus sitting still, like he’s the friggin’ sphynx.

Dean grabs his phone from his nightstand, squinting at the name that appears on the screen before it registers.

He answers, “Cas?”

Another check to his screen, “Dude, it’s almost three in the morning, what the hell?”

“ _Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair_ ,” Castiel slurs into the receiver.

“Man, you’re drunk,” Dean sighs. He’s Cas’ drunk dial--wonderful.

“I may be,” Cas agrees. “Just a little bit. However I am also very downstairs outside your building.”

Dean shoots up, startling both the boys--Baron so much so that he twists and falls off the bed altogether.

“You’re downstairs?”

“Yesh, yesh, yesh,” Cas babbles. “Do I shound like Preshident Nikshon?”

“You sound like you’re fuckin’ loaded, dude,” Dean slides out of bed. “Stay where you are, okay? I’m gonna come down.”

Dean bolts down the stairs and out onto the street, where Castiel stands under a the orange light of a street lamp. Is he… he’s smoking? Dean props the door open with one of his shoes and jogs to him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, only to be met with a full-body sway that ends with Castiel’s near-dead weight on him all at once. Still, he manages to keep his cigarette between his fingers.

“Had--I had to see you,” Cas looks up. His face is red, his eyes are pink. When he opens his mouth, Dean can smell liquor and beer and smoke--more than cigarette smoke, too. It’s that distinctly skunky smell of pot and ash and it shouldn’t smell so good on Cas’ leather jacket, but it does.

“Okay, put that out,” he snaps back into himself. “Christ, since when do you smoke?”

“Since I was sixteen,” Castiel replies frankly, as though Dean had really expected the answer. He takes one last drag before he stubs it out on his shoe, which only makes him lose his balance again. The cigarette drops onto the sidewalk, but before Cas can lean down to pick it up, Dean stands him upright.

His pupils are the same size, at least, but he is so out of his mind it’ll be a surprise if he even remembers being here in the morning.

Behind Castiel is his Mustang, parked at an angle beside the curb.

“Did you fucking drive like this?” Dean asks.

“Had t’see,” Cas gulps and staggers back to lean against the lamp post.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean comes around to the front of the car, inspecting for any damage. There’s no blood in the front grate, no scratches or nicks or dents. “You are lucky, man. You are so fucking lucky you didn’t kill someone. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I’z thinking I had to see you,” Cas tries to straighten his posture.

“Why?” Dean snaps back. “So you can remind me of what a fucking asshole I am again?”

“Oh, so you know,” Cas rubs his eyes. “The way you reacted earlier made me think no one had ever told you.”

Dean flips him off and starts to check the rest of the car for damage, just to be safe.

“You are an asshole,” says Cas.

“Okay, I got it,” Dean gives him a wave. “Thank you.”

“I still like you, though,” Cas sniffs hard, effectively turning Dean’s gut into jelly. “Isn’t that sick?”

For whatever reason, that makes Dean smile.

“And I think you like me too,” Cas continues. “‘cause you told me you did, but then you told me to get out, so I thought maybe you were just saying it to say it. That really, really sucked.”

Dean’s stomach fills with white hot guilt. He steps away from the car and comes to Cas’ side, so he can sling one of Cas’ arms over his shoulders.

“You good like this, or should I carry you?” he asks, only to be met with a giggle in reply.

“Pretty, pretty,” he reaches up and puts a clammy palm to Dean’s cheek. “You’re very pretty.”

“Yes, thank you,” Dean clears his throat. “C’mon, man, one foot in front of the other.”

“Am I going upstairs?”

“Yeah, I can’t let you drive home like this.”

“But I just wanted to see you,” Cas mumbles. “Don’t wanna impose.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a little late in the game for us not to impose on each other,” says Dean. They take the elevator, which is used almost exclusively by their elderly neighbors. It’s rickety and old and it smells like stale mothballs, but it’s a good means of transporting a giant heft of drunk weight.

“Okay, come on,” Dean leads Cas back into his bedroom and sits him down. Cas immediately flops back, but Dean pulls him up again, holding him steady by the face. “Do you want to borrow something to sleep in?”

“S’okay,” Cas sniffs and tries to untangle himself from his jacket. “I always travel with my birthday suit.”

“Oh, Christ,” Dean sighs. “At least keep the chonies on, okay?”

“As you wish,” Cas moves too quickly and falls back on the bed before he can get his pants all the way off. “I require some assistance.”

Dean sighs and helps him pull his jeans off. He is, thankfully, wearing underwear.

“Hey, no falling asleep yet, okay?” Dean says. “I’m getting you some water and crackers.”

“What did you call me?”

Castiel giggles at his own joke, so amused that he’s still at it by the time Dean returns with a sleeve of saltines and a glass of water. He sits on the bed beside Cas and pulls him up. He offers the water first, which Castiel gulps back like he’s been stranded in the Sahara for months on end.

“Saltines too, big boy,” Dean holds out two crackers. Castiel takes them, chews, complains about them making his mouth too dry, and turns these big helpless eyes on Dean when he sees that his glass is completely empty.

When Dean returns with a refreshed glass of water, he finds Cas snuggled up under his comforter already, eyes shut tight and nose scrunched up.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Your room spins,” Castiel declares. “Has it always done that?”

“New feature,” Dean smiles and sits down on the edge of the bed. “That’s how I get my exercise now, it’s like a giant hamster ball.”

Cas lets out a laugh and then throws the comforter back.

“Cuddle,” is all Cas says, and Dean’s stomach sours again.

“Ah, I don’t know,” Dean grabs the back of his neck. “I was just gonna crash on the couch the rest of the night.”

“No,” Cas’ face pinches in a pout. “Please, Dean? I need you.”

Oh.

_Ohh boy._

What is it about those words that get to Dean every time? What is it about them that make him slip under the blankets with Cas and scoop him up in his arms?

Why can’t he just say no, tell Cas to get some sleep, tell him that they’ll talk in the morning? Why does he have to push Cas’ sweaty hair off of his forehead and press a kiss just above his brow?

Why does he have to hold Cas close and reassure him, “It’s okay, you got me.”

**oo**

Dean is ninety percent sure it’s the fabled Megaquake that jolts him out of sleep. Except when he opens his eyes and finds everything is right side up, he realizes it’s Castiel shaking him awake.

“Fuckin’ A, I’m up!”

“Did we have sex last night?” Cas asks.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Dean sits up. Cas’ skin has lost its healthy color, replaced now by the sickly pale face of a body trying to detoxify itself. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Hungover,” Cas rubs his forehead. “Massively hungover.”

“You need to puke or anything?” Dean asks, but Cas shakes his head. “Man, you were wasted last night. What happened?”

Cas’ brow furrows as he tries to recall, “I went to Gabriel’s, we had a few beers and a few… herbal refreshments.”

“You smell like a freshman dorm room, man, I know you were drinking and smoking,” Dean scrubs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t know you smoked cigarettes either.”

Cas groans, “Dammit.”

“Since you were sixteen, huh?”

“I quit ten years ago,” Cas explains. “I didn’t call you, did I?”

“Oh yeah, you did,” Dean nods.

“I’m sorry,” Cas sighs. “You shouldn’t have come to get me.”

“Yeah, I didn’t come to get you,” says Dean. “Your ‘stang is parked out front, you drove your dumb ass here last night.”

Cas’ eyes go wide. “I _what_? Oh, my god.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, my god,” Cas puts his face in his hands. “What if I hit someone? I could be a murderer, _oh my god._ ”

“Dude, I checked the car,” Dean strokes a placating hand over Cas’ sweaty, greasy hair. “You’re okay, there weren’t any scratches or dents or blood or anything. Which, considering how lit you were is really fuckin’ lucky.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Cas looks up. The whites of his eyes have gone pink, and even though there are no tears on his face, that’s definitely what his body is attempting to bring forth. Dean scoots over and slings an arm around his shoulder. Cas goes rigid under the touch.

“Dean,” he murmurs. Dean can feel the upset pulsing through him, can see the hurt radiating off of his body. For whatever reason, it makes Dean hold him closer. He buries his nose in Cas’ damp hair, presses kisses to his temple and his cheek, because sometimes that’s all he can give. Then, of course, because this is Cas, it goes a step further than Dean means it and he lands on Cas’ lips.

Cas lets his mouth open, lets Dean rake his fingers through his hair and bring him back down into the sheets. He even allows Dean to stroke his cheek when they pull back.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Cas puffs softly, sending bolts of panic to Dean’s stomach. “If you’re just going to tell me to leave again, I would rather we stop now.”

“No,” Dean finds himself saying before he can stop it. “I--I fucked up. I know I did. I’m just… not great at this kinda thing.”

Cas nods and strokes the back of his neck, “I know.”

“D’you remember anything you said last night?” asks Dean. When Cas shakes his head, he continues, “You said you still like me.”

“Do you often take the words of blackout drunks as law?” Cas squints.

“You said that you think I like you too,” Dean kisses one corner of his mouth, and then the other. “And I figured if you were right about that, you were probably right about you liking me too.”

Cas’ eyebrows furrow further, and Dean rests their foreheads together. “I know I fucked up, Cas. I won’t--”

Cas cuts him off with a kiss.

“I’d rather you didn’t make any promises that you can’t keep,” he says when he pulls back. “I should really go, Dean.”

Dean’s throat shuts and he nods, shifting off of Cas so he can stand up and orient himself. He has to put a hand on the dresser, but after a few moments he seems to be functioning well enough to put on his pants.

Heat pricks behind Dean’s eyelids, but he hardens and sits up straight. He can’t cry, especially when Cas is right. They shouldn’t be doing this anymore, even if they do like each other. Dean clears his throat and stands, attempting to smooth out his hair as he offers, “I’ll walk down with you.”

Cas looks back at him, stoic face in place only for a second before his eyebrows knit up and his eyes go wide.

“Hey,” he steps toward Dean. “What’s going on?”

Dean bites his lip hard and looks up at the ceiling. He can’t cry. This is a good thing. They can quit fucking around, Dean can go back to picking up chicks, and he can forget any of this ever happened.

But then soft, full lips press against his, and instant relief shoots through his veins. He grabs onto Cas as tight as he can, even though he should just let him go and close the book on whatever this is.

Fuck buddies, probably.

They end up back on the bed for a few minutes, Cas on top of Dean, cupping his jaw as he presses kiss after kiss to his face. Dean wants to pull off all of Cas’ clothes, to get skin on skin, to get as close as they can.

And then just like that Castiel pulls away, and Dean is alone on his bed. He grabs his jacket off the floor and clears his throat.

“I really had better go, Dean.”

Dean nods, numb, and stands up. Cas might say something, but Dean can’t hear him over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He walks Cas to the front door, but has no intention of following him all the way downstairs. He does grab Cas’ shirt sleeve though, and says, “I’m real, real sorry, Cas.”

Cas gives him a melancholy smile and says, “I know you are, Dean. I am too. I’ll see you on Monday.”

He leans in and gives Dean a quick peck on the lips, a wave, and walks off down the hall.

Dean closes the door and leans back against it. Holy shit, this fucking sucks. His eyes start to burn and it feels like someone just stomped a hole in his chest.

Which, of course, is when Sam emerges from his bedroom. Dean doesn’t even get to straighten himself out before Sam catches his eye and stops cold.

“Whoa, are you okay?”

It’s not until he feels two hot tears trail down his face that he admits, “I think I fucked up, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/29/14: Hi all. We're in the midst of a family emergency in my little corner of the world. There's been a delay in my updates, but I hope to have the next chapter up by the end of this week. Thank you for those who've shown support, it means a whole lot. Your patience is appreciated!!!


	9. When Lightning Strikes Me

Castiel gets to work early on Monday for an extra-long run. He went to Gabriel’s on Saturday and slept there for the rest of the weekend. Gabriel didn’t even protest when Castiel passed out in his bed, when they woke up huddled together like they used to when they were little kids.

Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, THC making his limbs heavy and his head light, he said, “I should go apologize.”

“Man, you did the right thing,” Gabriel reassured him. “He’s a big boy, okay? He can handle himself. You gotta look after yourself first and foremost, remember?”

The words ring as true now as they did on Saturday night, but in the back of his mind, Castiel knows that he needs to make sure that Dean is at least okay. He wasn’t wrong--he needed to establish a boundary--but he still likes Dean, still wants to be his friend, and maybe he still wants to have buckwild apocalyptic sex with him down the road, when his feelings have settled.

If his feelings settle.

His feet pound on the spongey track, the only thing in his ears the sound of his breathing and the wind rushing in his ears. He runs until his legs are sore, until his lungs burn with cold air and fine mist.

It doesn’t get the thought of Dean out of his head, but it gives him the chance to focus on something else.

By the time he’s done running, he’s soaked in sweat and stinks to high heaven. He doesn’t want to get back into his clothes like this, but he also doesn’t want to have to ask Dean for the shower key. Luckily, on his way off the track, he spots Jo.

“Well, hey there,” she greets him with a sunny smile. “Pretty steady runner, there. You run when you were in school?”

“The running that I did happened to occur while I was in high school, yes,” he replies.

“Well, here,” she pulls her keys out of her pocket. “Lemme let you into the showers.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks.

“Of course,” Jo waves it off. “Can’t have you walkin’ around stinkin’ up the joint.”

“Well, thank you,” says Castiel. “Normally I would ask Dean, but…”

He realizes he does not have a suitable explanation, but thankfully Jo jumps in, “Well, he called out sick today anyway, so I’m your girl.”

Worry bubbles up in Castiel’s mind. Dean called in sick? Why? It’s not…

It’s not because of him, is it? Shit, it is. Of course it is. Dean is living with a mental illness, he put his trust in Castiel and Castiel pushed him away.

Castiel makes even quicker work of his shower than usual and bolts to get dressed. He has to grab his work clothes out of his car (Castiel definitely does not notice the absence of one 1967 Chevy Impala) and throw them on before he heads into the teacher’s lounge. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down with Gabriel and Charlie.

“What’s up, holiday broham?” asks Gabriel from behind the Arts & Leisure section of the LA Times.

“Mm, not your best, but I’ll give you points,” Charlie awards, not looking up from her game on her phone.

“I appreciate it, your highness,” Gabriel tosses back.

Castiel blinks, “I’m not even going to ask.”

“Since you asked, it’s LARPing season again, and our own Charles Bukkake--”

“Bukowski,” Castiel corrects, his face now in his hands.

“--is queen of the mystical land of Moondork.”

“Moondor, you turd,” Charlie corrects and then looks up at Castiel. “We’re always looking for newcomers. Gabriel is being a douchenozzle about it right now, but he’s come to a lot of our weekends. Dean even came the last couple of times.”

Castiel looks over at his brother just in time to see him disappear behind his paper once more.

“Did Dean mention being sick to either of you?” he decides to change the subject, at which point Gabriel gives up on trying to read and slaps the paper to the table.

He leans forward on his elbows and very plainly says, “If he said he’s sick, he’s sick. It doesn’t have a goddamned thing to do with you.”

Charlie perks up.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” says Castiel, a little too quickly for Charlie’s full belief, but before he can say anything else, Gabriel steps in.

“Remember the guy Cas was talking about last week?”

Charlie’s brows furrow, the cogs in her brain turning until it clicks and her eyes go wide.

“But he--”

“I know.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“... I owe you twenty dollars, don’t I?”

“Indeed you do, Chaz,” Gabriel nods. “I accept cash, personal checks, or direct deposit to my paypal account.”

“Wait,” Charlie turns to Castiel. “Why would he be out because of you?”

“Well, apart from the very thinly veiled shade little Castiel threw his way,” Gabriel considers.

“You,” Castiel points at him. “You are done speaking. And you,” he points at Charlie, “You are to keep this to yourself.”

“Of course,” Charlie nods. “But okay, what happened?”

What ends up coming out of his mouth is every last detail of the last couple months, from drinks in the bar to the way he’d left Dean on Saturday morning. After a moment to digest the information, Charlie lets out a low whistle.

“Merlin’s saggy left nut, that’s some effed up shit right there, buddy,” she determines. “God, that poor guy.”

“That poor guy?” Gabriel sits up. “He’s stomping all over Cas’ heart.”

“My heart remains as untouched in my chest as it always has been,” Castiel says.

“Guys, we all know how we felt,” Charlie finally turns her phone off, though she stopped playing her game long ago. “When you first realized that you were queer, don’t you remember how terrifying it was? Imagine how much more terrifying it would have been if we’d only realized it now.”

Oh, shit.

Shit, Castiel hadn’t even thought about that. He doesn’t know that he ever would have been able to handle it as well as he did if he hadn’t had Gabriel there to lean on when he needed support, and to encourage him to “spread his legs and fly” when he needed the extra push.

Castiel puts his head down on the table, and declares, “I think I fucked up.”

**oo**

Castiel pushes himself through his first class and decides to take his first break in his classroom with the door shut and blinds drawn.

He did, however, forget to lock the door, and ends up with a visitor not two minutes into the twenty minute period. The boy isn’t one of his students, but he recognizes him from Jody’s AP US History class, and Crowley’s Academic Decathlon team.

“Mr. Novak?”

“Hello,” Castiel sets down his yogurt. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Kevin Tran,” he steps closer to Castiel’s desk. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m head of the running club. We’re kind of new, and Mr. Winchester is our sponsor teacher, but hes out today. I went and asked Ms. Harvelle if she’d supervise our meeting this afternoon, but she has dance club this afternoon, so she told me to come find you because you run.”

He looks a little out of breath by the end of his explanation, but he holds himself steady and waits for Castiel to answer him.

“Well, I’m sure Mr. Winchester will be back tomorrow,” he replies, hoping to god that it’s the truth.

“We meet on Mondays at lunch,” says Kevin. “I mean, we can skip this week, but…” he falters, which Castiel figures means he’s staring. He flips his tie back over onto his chest and sits up.

“I’m happy to host your club, Kevin,” he says. The least he can do, for the moment at least, since he’s pretty sure that he’s the reason Dean isn’t here today. “Is there anything I should know, or that you need from me before the meeting?”

“Right now we’re working on setting up routes and coordinating after school runs,” says Kevin. “The thing is, Mr. Winchester isn’t really a runner, so he can’t shed too much light on routes and stuff.”

“I’m certain I’m capable of helping you with that,” Castiel replies. “I’ll see what I can come up with, all right?”

“All right,” relief spreads over Kevin’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Novak.”

“Of course,” Castiel nods, and bids Kevin a final goodbye. Oddly enough, it’s kind of an exciting thing. He hasn’t yet been at Sandover long enough to establish himself in any sort of extra curricular activity, and this may be the key to showing that he’s part of the team.

Not that he minds whether or not people consider him a team player.

Perhaps, more than anything, this will show Dean that Castiel is willing to help him when he needs.

Third period is Lifeskills, which basically means that Castiel has to babysit a room full of ninth graders while he tries to teach the fundamentals of communication and finance and personal responsibility--nothing he wanted to teach, but as a greenhorn teacher that’s the hand he was dealt.

Today’s topic, according to the program already laid out for him, is personal finance.

Yippee.

Useful, sure, but the moment Castiel says ‘balancing checkbooks’, he’s met with a room full of blank faces.

“You have no idea what checkbooks are, do you?”

The majority of kids shake their heads--a few know-it-alls in training scoff, roll their eyes, and insist that yes they do know, because unlike their peers, they pay attention to what’s important in life.

This is, after all, Lifeskills.

Castiel shuts the manual for this course and tosses it back on his desk.

“If you don’t find this to be a valuable life skill, then what would you rather learn?” he asks. “I’m not asking to be mean, I would genuinely like to know. In fact…” he thinks for a moment, “Yes, I like this. Everyone cluster in groups of four, pick one note-taker for the group, and I want you to brainstorm a list of what skills you would like to get out of this class. We will reconvene in ten minutes.”

“You’re the teacher,” says a girl, Ruby, from the back of the class. “Aren’t you supposed to know what skills we need?”  

“Do the exercise, Ruby,” Castiel comes back.

The students finish, and group by group they go through their suggestions.

“I don’t know how well,” Castiel glances at the giant brainstorm now on the whiteboard, “how to use condoms’ will fare, as this isn’t health class. Not that I wouldn’t love to impart that knowledge on you, as it is probably one of the most valuable skills many of you will ever learn.”

He ponders over the rest of the suggestions and circles a few.

“What if we had a unit about coping with pressure,” he thinks aloud and then turns back to the students.

“Are you seriously revamping the entire class while we sit here? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Well, being that teaching you life skills that none of you are receptive to learning is counterproductive, I want your input,” says Castiel.  “I’m sorry to do this so late in the semester, but I think teaching you guys how to cope with the pressures of education and your coming adult lives will be beneficial to you.”

“What about finances?” asks Krissy Chambers from her seat up front.

“We’ll have a finance unit still,” Castiel reassures here. “Perhaps one with a little more substance than me teaching simple arithmetic. What else would you like to learn more about?”

“Drugs!”

“Devil worship!”

“Obviously we’ll need a communication unit, as well,” Castiel purses his lips and looks at the board. “But I think this will be a good start.”

He spends the rest of the period going over topics, restructuring his entire semester. He doesn’t mind it, though, because after a while the kids start to get into it. They offer suggestions and speak up far more than they have so far this year.

By the time the lunch bell rings, Castiel barely has a second to himself before he’s bombarded by the running club.

Apparently there are some newcomers, so Kevin asks that they introduce themselves first. Castiel is pleased to see such a wide array of students, so caught up in a sense of belonging that he almost doesn’t realize that Kevin is speaking to him.

“Oh,” Castiel processes the question. “Well, I never did running as a sport. One day I realized I liked doing it, so I kept on doing it.”

That’s all they need to know, right?

It actually proves to be a very productive meeting. Castiel hooks his computer up to the projector and opens up a map on which they can plan running routes. They get into it, too, with a few kids complaining about the topography, how they should have at least a few routes that don’t involve hills.

His last class of the day is World History. Tenth graders are only marginally more tolerable than ninth graders, but at least the kids are presenting their reports on the ancient civilization of their choice today, so it’s a relatively easy period.

Between a couple of his students bumbling through the public speaking and more than half bumbling through the information they so obviously only attained last night, Castiel’s mind wanders.

For the first time since this morning, thoughts of Dean creep up on him. It’s nothing special that triggers it, he just has a moment of Dean would think this is funny when Ava Wilson gestures so wildly that she hits Andy Gallagher right in the face.

And then he remembers that Dean is not here, that he is at home, probably upset, and that it’s probably because of something he said.

Ugh.

He needs to apologize, doesn’t he?

The period wraps up and Castiel nearly forgets to assign homework. The students groan, but Castiel doesn’t care. He packs up as quickly as he can and ensures his students that he will be in early tomorrow, and that they can always post questions on the class blog.

He gets to his car and hauls ass to the freeway, not even pausing to think about what he’ll say or do when he gets to Dean’s apartment. That’s if Dean lets him in, of course.

It’s then when Castiel starts to perspire. Under his arms, on the back of his neck, below his hairline, it all starts up at once and won’t stop. He remembers fighting with Ephraim, how he would go to school the next day only to be completely iced out, ignored. Even if Castiel hadn’t done anything wrong, it was always Ephraim who severed the line of communication between them.

And then Castiel would beg, beg, beg for forgiveness, because if he didn’t then it would never happen. Castiel had loved Ephraim, had felt what he thought was love at the time. He loved that the surly guy who smoked cigarettes out behind the gym was also a raging queer. He loved that someone from such a shitty home could have such a wonderful soul--or, what had passed for wonderful, anyway.

He’d thought Meg was wonderful too. Thorny, crass, emotionally stunted Meg--Castiel couldn’t say ‘no’ to her, which worked out for a while, at least for her, as she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He wanted to heal her and she wanted to corrupt him, and both were as determined as the other.

Castiel takes Dean’s exit off the freeway and pulls over into a 7-11 parking lot. He takes out his phone and hovers over his message threat to Gabriel. His brother is as gifted at talking him out of things as he is at talking him into things. One phone call, Gabriel will sort him out, he’ll be able to get back on the freeway and go home.

Naturally, Castiel makes a complete one-eighty and brings up a message to Charlie.

‘No commentary, just answer: is Dean Winchester a forgiving man?’

It’s another few minutes before he gets an answer back, ‘I haven’t known him long enough to be able to say’

Damn.

But another message chirps at him, ‘but a little birdie told me that Mr. Winchester is remiss to decline a cheeseburger and a pretty face ;D’

Castiel’s face burns, but damn it.

Damn it, he knows what he has to do.

He waits in the unnecessarily long In-N-Out line, picks up the cheesiest burger he can get and drives the short way to Dean’s apartment building. Thankfully, there’s a spot right out front and he’s able to snag it without issue.

Sure, he nearly gets nailed by a blue Prius on his way out of the car, but he survives, and so he must continue. Castiel punches in the code to get into the building and darts up the stairs, up to Dean's apartment. He has to knock at least three times before the door finally wrenches open, Dean on the other side, looking like he’s just seen Cas rise from the dead.

He doesn't get a chance to explain himself and Dean doesn’t get a chance to interrogate him before Baron bounds to the door, sniffing all the way from Castiel's shoe to his knee, and then to the box of burgers and fries in his hands. He goes wild, jumping and bucking and barking all too loudly for the setting.

“Hey, knock it off,” Dean commands, though there’s no edge to his voice.

"Dean,” is all Castiel can say.  He's messy, pale and unshowered, dressed in loose fitting sweat pants, a t-shirt that’s about three sizes too big for him, and a gray bathrobe that has definitely seen better days.

"What are you doing here?" Dean finally manages to ask, voice as limp as before.

"I," The rest of the explanation gets caught in Castiel’s throat. He shifts his weight and pointedly keeps his eyes fixed on Dean. He can't look away. Looking away means that you're ‘insincere’, even when so often it means that it's just hard to look at another person sometimes.

Especially when you're looking at someone you care about, someone you've so obviously hurt.

“You weren’t at work today,” he says, and then holds up the food. Dean looks from Cas to the burgers and back again. Wordlessly, he snatches the burgers out of Cas’ hands and steps aside so he can come in.

“Dean, I’m--”

But Dean doesn’t hang around to listen, just makes a beeline for his room.  He doesn’t close the door, so Castiel follows. Dean didn’t even make it to the bed, instead opting to eat his peace offering on the floor.

“May I join you?” Castiel asks. Dean looks up, pink rimmed around his clouded eyes. For a moment Castiel has the very real fear that he’s about to be kicked out of the apartment and told that he is never to come back, ever.

But Dean’s only response is to shrug, so Castiel takes that as a good sign and sits down across from him. Dean grabs one burger and Castiel the other. It’s the first thing Castiel has eaten since his yogurt, and a borderline orgasmic sound escapes his chest.

“the hell was that?” Dean asks.

“I haven’t eaten since this morning,” Castiel explains through a full mouth, and swallows hard. “Kevin Tran came to me and asked if I would hold the running club meeting this afternoon.”

“Ah, shit,” Dean sets down his burger--throws it down, more like--and rubs his forehead. “Fuck, I totally forgot about that.”

“Well, we had a productive meeting,” Castiel reassures him. “We came up with some new routes for our weekend runs. They’re trying to coordinate something for next weekend.”

He looks at Dean only to find that he’s being stared at. When Dean remains silent, Castiel clears his throat, “I didn’t expect being stared at to be this unnerving.”

Dean’s staring persists, his silence stretches on, and Castiel can’t take it anymore. Someone has to do something and at this point he does not care.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he says, scooting forward, leaving his burger forgotten beside Dean’s. “I shouldn’t have left the other day like that. It wasn’t fair, and it--it was unkind.”

Finally Dean’s eyes flit up and bore into his. Castiel can’t help the fingers that come up to stroke those freckled cheeks, or the sigh of relief when Dean leans into the touch. He wets his lips and lets his thumb glide over his cheekbone.

“Please, Dean,” Castiel hears himself plead. “Please, let me--” he swallows.

“Let you what?” Dean’s voice comes out hoarse.

For lack of a fitting verbal communication, Castiel bows their heads together, hands still on Dean’s face. He wants to kiss him so, so badly, but Dean may not want that. He just needs Dean to know that he’s sorry, and that all he wants is for Dean to be okay.

He feels Dean’s breath puff warm and moist against his lips. His heart hammers all the way up in his throat, his pulse pounds in his ears. Castiel’s body screams out for Dean’s, his mind screams out for the acceptance of what’s turning out to be a very unconventional apology.

“I’m sorry I’m such a dick,” Dean murmurs.

“You’re not a dick,” Castiel pulls back and kisses him in the center of his forehead. “You’re not. You’re a good person, you’re just a little frightened. That’s all.”

Castiel isn’t sure which of those was the buzzword, but soon tears leak out of the corners of Dean’s eyes and roll down his cheeks. As though he’s only just realized what his body has started to do, Dean pulls back and mops the tears up off of his face.

“Dean?” Castiel prompts, but he doesn’t respond. “Dean, it’s okay to be frightened. I think most everybody is about something.”

He scoots even closer and pulls Dean into his arms.

“You’re a good person,” Castiel repeats. “And I do regret hurting you, Dean. I really do. I would do anything to make it up to you.”

That was always the key phrase with others. Sometimes you have to swallow your pride and let someone know just how important they are, how they’re worth anything and everything within the realm of your capabilities.

Dean leans into Castiel, nuzzling the side of his face, lips skating over his jaw.

When their lips connect, Castiel lets out a soft sigh. He strokes the back of his knuckles over Dean’s sideburns, tangles his fingers in Dean’s limp, messy hair. They pull apart all too soon, and Dean won’t open his eyes but that’s somehow okay. Castiel peppers kisses over Dean’s face and squeezes him tight. He wants to wrap Dean up and keep him close to his chest, where he knows he’ll be safe.

He has to let Dean know that he’ll always be safe with him.

Dean tips his face back up so they’re kissing again. He tastes like burgers and like he maybe forgot to brush his teeth for the last few days, but Castiel doesn’t mind. Dean is kissing him, and if he’s kissing him he’s not mad at him and they can still salvage this.

Whatever this is.

Dean shrugs out of his bathrobe and moves so he’s holding Castiel’s jaw steady. He slips his tongue between Castiel’s lips, strokes along the roof of his mouth, and Castiel lets himself just melt.

They leave their food forgotten as Castiel pushes Dean back onto the carpet and continues kissing him in earnest. Dean is putty underneath him, letting Castiel sculpt and mold him exactly to where he wants him. This time when he pulls back, Dean’s cheeks are flushed and his lips and eyes are dark.

“Cas,” he puffs softly.

“What?” Castiel leans down and presses a kiss to the center of his forehead. “You can have anything you want.”

Dean’s chest rattles as he exhales. His tongue comes out to lick his lips and he stares up at the ceiling.

“I haven’t slept since Saturday,” he admits.

Guilt stabs through Castiel’s heart.

“Would you like to try to sleep?” he asks.

Dean nods.

“Do you want to finish eating?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Okay, come on then,” Castiel pushes himself up and helps Dean into his bed. He only walks to the door to close it, but Dean stops him.

“Don’t go.”

Castiel turns to him and reassures, “I won’t.”

He shuts the door, puts the forgotten food up on Dean’s desk, and picks up a few stray dirty clothes.

“Cas?”

He looks up, “Yes, Dean?”

Dean scoots over on his bed and pats the spot beside him. Castiel stalls a little too long, so Dean then asks, “Please?”

“Of course,” Castiel nods, and climbs into bed beside him. He lets Dean snuggle up to him as he sees fit and curls a protective arm around him. Dean’s breath evens out, his muscles relax. His body is so exhausted that he’s out and out hard within a matter of minutes.

Castiel kisses the top of his head and resolves to stay there for as long as Dean needs him.

**oo**

Dean wakes some time later. Castiel doesn’t sleep, but he drifts into a very relaxed state. It would almost be meditative if it weren’t for the way Dean shifts against him and distracts him out of his peaceful headspace.

When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel expects Dean to freak out, to push him out of bed and tell him to keep away from him.

But he doesn’t.

Dean just sits up and rubs the crust out of his eyes and yawns.

At a loss for words, Castiel stays still until Dean looks back at him and is able to gather his bearings. Another few moments pass before Dean smears a hand over his face and says, “I must fuckin’ stink.”

“I grew up with Gabriel,” Castiel sits up. “I promise you that I’ve smelled a lot worse.”

Dean snorts and hangs his head.

“Thanks for coming.”

Castiel’s lips quirk in a smile, “Thank you for letting me in. How are you doing?”

“Man, I could sleep for a year and it wouldn’t be enough,” Dean yawns. “I’m gonna de-stench now.”

“Do you--” Castiel stops himself, but Dean raises his eyebrow and waits for Cas to continue. “Would you like company?”

Dean lets out a small smile and nods, so Castiel follows him into the bathroom across the hall. They shed their clothes and step under the steamy spray of the water. Castiel doesn’t know that he’s seen Dean naked before--just naked, without sex being the end game. Dean certainly hasn’t seen him in such a state.

Dean groans as the water cascades over his muscles, lets the steam engulf him and fill his lungs. Castiel steps forward and pulls him into a kiss, because… well, just because.

When he pulls back he asks, “Where’s your soap?”

Dean grabs a bar of generic soap and hands it over, and sighs when Castiel starts to rub it into his chest.

“I bet this feels nice,” Castiel hums.

Dean nods and leans forward, moaning and groaning as Castiel massages into his muscles. He rubs over every inch that Dean will let him touch, and by the end he’s so relaxed that Castiel thinks he might fall asleep again.

“All right,” Castiel laughs as Dean falls into the towel he holds open for him. It kind of gets Castiel stuck between the door and the front of Dean’s body, the towel the only thing keeping skin from touching skin.

Entirely zen, Dean grins and pecks a kiss to his lips.

Wrapped up in towels with their clothes in hand, they go back to Dean’s room.

“Hey, don’t put your dirty clothes back on,” says Dean as Castiel steps into his slacks. He pulls open a drawer and tosses him a pair of pajama pants. “And lemme see if I can find it…”

Dean digs around in his drawer, totally naked, skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower, and apparently is successful in his search. He tosses another piece of fabric at Castiel, which hits him in the face before it falls to the floor.

Castiel can’t look away from Dean--the way his muscles move under his skin, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs at whatever face Castiel happens to be making.

He should have called Gabriel.

He should have gotten out while he could, before he reached the event horizon and ended up sucked into the supermassive void. The world around them bends, and space-time honest-to-god warps the closer and closer Castiel comes to the center, to Dean.

And Dean lets him fall right in.

Castiel pushes Dean back onto the bed and climbs over him, pressing their bodies together until it’s hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. He kisses and licks and sucks at Dean’s neck, his shoulders, his chest. He teases with feather light touches, getting stiffer and stiffer as Dean writhes beneath him.

Dean moans softly when Castiel grinds down against him. Their cocks bump, trapped between their bellies, and at Dean’s sharp intake of breath he does it again.

“You look so good underneath me,” he whispers into Dean’s ear, and hiccups when Dean grinds back, “So good.”

Even if Castiel hasn’t done this since high school, it’s nice. It’s nice to feel Dean’s hands on his back, to feel fingernails digging in. It’s nice to have Dean’s legs wrapped around him, nice to have Dean’s erection sliding against his in a mix of precome, sweat, and shower water.

More than anything, Castiel wants to come inside Dean. Any other time, he might see if he could get Dean on board, but not now. Right now it’s about Dean, what he wants, and if Dean flipped him over and decided he wanted to fuck his ass until neither of them could walk right, then that’s what Castiel would do.

“Here,” Cas huffs and sits up, even though Dean pleads for him to keep going. He pulls Dean up with him and scoots them close together, so their cocks line up again.

Castiel takes them both in his hand and gives a squeeze, eliciting a moan from the both of them. Precome oozes out of the both of them and slicks Castiel’s palm.

Dean whimpers.

“Does that feel good,” Castiel says more than asks, and Dean nods. He strokes faster, until his wrist starts to get tired. He could come if he wanted, but the sight before him is too lovely and he wants to keep it close to him, forever.

Then Dean’s hand comes up to join Castiel’s, and eventually edges him away. Castiel’s face flushes and his heart skips, because Dean is looking down at them completely awed and it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

Dean comes first, unable to hold it back anymore, looping his free arm around Castiel’s neck, muffling his groans against his skin. Dean’s come coats his hand, shoots over Castiel’s stomach and makes everything all slippery and downright dirty.

Dean’s hand slows as he catches his breath, and he looks down.

“Shit,” he huffs.

Struggling to keep his tone even, Castiel remarks, “That’s a pretty big mess you made.”

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and they lock eyes. Castiel manages to maintain as he buries his fingers in Dean’s hair and grips hard, pulling a moan out of him as he leans in so close that their lips are nearly touching.

“I don’t like messes,” he murmurs. “Clean it up.”

Dean swallows again and moves to grab his towel from the floor, but Castiel stops him.

“You’re not allowed to leave the bed until you clean it up,” he instructs.

He sees it click and relishes in the way Dean’s eyes go wide, because Cas can’t really be suggesting that, can he? But he is, and Dean knows that he is, so he pushes Cas back onto the bed and slides down.  

The fact that Dean even entertains the idea is enough for Castiel, but when he actually does it? As soon as Dean’s tongue drags through and licks up his own come, Castiel knows he’s in for it, that he’s more done than he ever thought he could be.

And then that fucking hand is back on him again, holding him steady by the base and--fuck--sliding his lips over Castiel’s foreskin but never down around the rest of him.

As it turns out, Castiel is a lot closer to orgasm than he originally thought, and comes without warning.

All over Dean’s face.

And because there is too much going on all at once up in his brain, Castiel’s first inclination is to start laughing hysterically.

“Man, shut up,” Dean gets up to his knees, cock going soft between his legs, cheeks burning bright red with embarrassment. Castiel grins and sits up, pulling Dean in and licking up what’s left on his chin.

They’re so messy, so debauched and dirty, and when they kiss this time, it’s like they’ll never be able to get enough.

Dean pulls back first, but keeps his hands on different parts of Castiel, never losing contact. Castiel kisses Dean’s forehead, over each of his eyebrows and down to his cheeks.

Dean’s stomach lets out a low growl, and out of solidarity so does Castiel’s.

“I’m fuckin’ starving,” Dean pulls back and looks over at the burgers on the desk. “Think the burgers are still good?”

“Good if you like congealed cheese and soggy bread,” Castiel yawns, not missing Dean’s wrinkled nose. He rakes his fingernails over Dean’s scalp, cradles his face in his hands and gives him a kiss. “We could go get some dinner, if you’d like.”

At that, Dean pulls away from Castiel, putting a generous amount of space between them.

Castiel cocks his head, “Was that somehow more offensive than a faceful of come?”

Dean flushes, but doesn’t respond. He just hops up off of his bed and pulls on his clothes, and Castiel’s guts twist up in a painful knot.

“What the hell is your problem?” he asks, and Dean freezes.

Jesus Christ, “You know, when I said that we can’t do ‘this’ anymore, ‘this’ is what I meant,” he gestures between them. “This can just be sex, or it can be something more, but I have to know, Dean.”

“Man, I don’t know,” Dean folds his arms over his chest. “Can you just… put some pants on.”

Castiel has to try very, very hard not to roll his eyes, and abides Dean’s request.

“I don’t get what’s wrong with what we’ve been doing,” says Dean.

“We’ve been fucking around, Dean,” Castiel explains as he tucks his dress shirt. “Which has been wonderful, I admit, but we’re adults, and coworkers.” He licks his lips, “And friends, I thought.”

He doesn’t miss the crestfallen look on Dean’s face at Castiel’s afterthought.

Castiel continues, “When I say that I like you, I mean it, Dean. I like you.”

Dean lets out a laugh and buries his face in his hands, “Well, you don’t know me, so that’s not a fuckin’ surprise.”

“Will you stop with that?” Castiel snaps. “I don’t care if you don’t like you, because I like you. Don’t project your dislike of yourself onto me, because it’s not true, so fucking deal with it.”

Dean’s jaw constricts as he grinds his molars together, his eyes now fixed on the ceiling, nowhere near Castiel.

“Dean, I’m not upset with you,” he says. “I just need you to understand that I do care about you. And I… I believe that you care about me too.”

“I,” Dean gulps the words back, like he’s swallowing a mouthful of rat poison. He takes a breath, centers himself, and nods.

“I do.”

Castiel lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Then we need to establish what this is.”

Dean grabs the back of his neck with both hands, hangs his head and sighs.

“Thought you didn’t date,” is what he finally decides to say.

“Really?” Castiel furrows his brow. “That’s what you got from all of that?”

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean rubs his eyes. “I don’t date either, all right? I’ve had one real relationship my whole life and that ended in a flaming pile of shit. And I’d never even fuckin’ considered being with a guy before--”

He catches himself, wide-eyed at the confession about to come tumbling out of his mouth, and suddenly Charlie’s words come crashing back down on him. Castiel only had to go what is now less than half of his life without accepting this part of himself. Dean has gone his entire life believing that his--that humanity’s sexuality is set in stone, definable by a linear spectrum rather than a multidimensional, ever expanding plane of existence.

Castiel folds his arms over his chest and says, “Perhaps it would be best to ask you how you define this, between us.”

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and shifts back and forth on his feet.

“I don’t know, man,” he finally says. “Fuckbuddies?”

Happy just to have some kind of idea, Castiel nods, “Okay, then. Fuckbuddies.”

“But,” Dean interjects, voice shaky. “You’re not just the guy I’m fuckin’ around with. I… yeah.”

Oddly enough, ‘I… yeah’ is a thousand times more than Castiel thought he would be getting.

“Perhaps ‘friends with benefits’ is a more fitting term for this between us,” says Castiel. “I do consider you to be my friend, Dean.”

Dean nods again, this time in agreement, “Yeah, man. We’re friends.”

“And as for exclusivity,” Castel lets out a breath. “I haven’t been seeing anyone else. Quite frankly, I don’t think I have the energy.”

Dean snorts, “Yeah, no shit.”

He appears to be a little more relaxed when they catch each other’s eye this time. It may not be concrete, but it’s a start, and a start is better than nothing. They’re in whatever this is together, they like one another, and they haven’t been fooling around with anyone else.

Castiel is pretty sure that this means they’re dating, or together, but Dean’s still tentative about it. Rushing Dean won’t do either of them any favors, even if it would be wonderful to call Dean his boyfriend. If that’s not what Dean needs then that can wait.

Another growl of Dean’s stomach and he resigns, “Okay, I’m callin’ it. Let’s get some fuckin’ food.”

Castiel smiles and, just to be a pain, loops his arms around Dean’s waist as he opens the door. Dean grumbles about it, but he doesn’t throw Castiel off of him or shove him away.

He’s breaking down the wall, he can tell--chipping away and away until Dean can step out and be okay with this, with all of it.

Castiel can help him.

Even if Dean does tell him to knock it off before they walk out into the living room.

Unfortunately, Sam is sitting on the arm of the couch with a take out menu in his hands, and the second they’re in view it’s clear, at least to Castiel, that he knows exactly what they’ve been doing. Dean tenses beside him, but doesn’t run away.

“How long have you been home?” he asks.

“Long enough,” Sam replies, looking back at the menu. “Jess is out with friends tonight, I’m gonna order Chinese. Cas, you wanna stick around and eat with us?”

He casts a tentative look at Dean, who looks from him to Sam and back again.

“Sure,” Cas finally answers. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you, Sam.”

“No problem,” Sam nods. “C’mon, there’s another menu in the kitchen.”

Castiel follows him, only to be stopped as soon as they’re out of Dean’s sight. Sam shoves his menu against Castiel’s chest and lowers his voice so only the two of them can hear, “If you fuck with him, I’ll kill you and make it look like an accident.”

He winks and claps him on the shoulder, “Welcome to the family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! Things have been a little hectic for me these last couple of weeks, and so if you're still hanging on I am eternally grateful. :)


	10. In Your Closet, In Your Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has some light, light D/s dynamics (transparent, almost, but better to warn than not) and a corresponding drop/endorphin crash (light, transparent, but a lot of negative self talk and thoughts so beware). 
> 
> Also, bottom-ish Dean. 
> 
> If I missed anything just let me know. I'm happy to add it to the list above.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Ask me that one more time, Sam. One more fuckin’ time and you’re gettin’ your damn teeth knocked in.”

Dean doesn’t even feel bad about it anymore. He’s told Sam at least a hundred times that he doesn’t want to talk about Cas, him and Cas, or the implications of what Dean now knows Sam knows that they’re doing. Sam knows, Jess probably knows, but that doesn’t mean they have to talk about it.

Mostly because Dean is pretty sure he can’t talk about it without all the meat boiling off his bones. Every time Sam starts talking, Dean’s anxiety spikes. At any moment, without warning, Sam could switch the topic entirely and ask Dean, “So, how’s your big gay sex life going?”

He might like Cas, and they might be kind of sort of not really but maybe a _little_ bit together, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to wax poetic about it every time an opportunity presents itself. For fuck’s sake, he knows he’s gay now or whatever but he doesn’t have to be _that_ type of gay.  

He’ll just grope Cas in his office between classes and that will be that.

October winds down and funnels into November. The wind starts to whip up all the smells of autumn, of wet leaves and cool sunshine, and Dean is relieved that he can worry a little less about any of his students passing out from heat stroke. Of course, with the cool comes, admittedly, the much needed rain, and any phys ed teacher with half a brain in their heads knows that rainy days drive students one hundred percent insane.

Which is why at lunchtime Dean ends up dozing off with his chin propped in his hand, tupperware of Jess’ spinach lasagna steaming up into his face. He barely even notices when Charlie and Gabriel sit down with him, and only rouses when he hears Cas’ voice greet the three of them.

It’s weird, knowing that he wants to curl up against Cas and rest his head on his shoulder and _knowing_ what that implies. They’re edging toward the end of the semester, which affords him and Cas little time together, and goddamn it, Dean misses it, okay? He likes hanging out with Cas, but they’re so caught up in writing up exams and tallying up final grades that they don’t have enough time to spend together outside of school.

Dean hopes neither Charlie nor Gabe notices him inch a little closer to Cas as soon as he sits down.

“All right, nerds,” Gabe smacks his hands onto the table. “I’ve got the big 3-4 comin’ up at the end of the week.”

“Hag,” Charlie quips from behind her sandwich.

“You shut your rug muncher,” Gabe quips. “I know we’re all in the weeds here, but I wanna at least have some fun on Friday night. Will you, my three nearest and dearest friends, come and get balls drunk on my birthday?”

“Of course, Gabriel,” Cas nods, pulling a sandwich out of his lunch bag.

“Yeah, I can’t leave a bro hangin’ on his birthday,” Charlie agrees.

“I dunno, man,” Dean yawns. “I don’t wanna be stranded out in Hollywood that late.”

“You can always stay with me,” Cas offers, and Dean’s stomach instantly freezes. A hearty ‘ _what the fuck_ ’ sits on his lips, but never makes it out. That will only draw attention to the situation, and hey, wasn’t he being cool about this?

He was totally being cool about this, thank you very much.

“You sure?” Dean ends up asking, ignoring the look Gabe and Charlie share.

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” says Cas.

And because Dean is the master of tact, he agrees, adding, “I hope your couch is comfy. Since I’ll be sleeping on it.”

It’s impossible to ignore Charlie and Gabe’s reactions to that, but Dean does find that he can just not respond to their skepticism.

Because yeah, he wanted a little more time with Cas, but this is the universe aligning in his favor and  then some. He doesn’t stay with people. Yeah, he lived with Lisa for a little while, one time, after he experienced a near miss with a beer bottle, courtesy of the mild-mannered and temperate John Winchester. That relationship had come to an abrupt end when Dean chose to go back and care for his dad rather than let the miserable son of a bitch suffer.

Not that Dean could blame Lisa for that. You find out the guy you’re with will run back to his deadbeat alcoholic dad without so much as batting an eyelash, you start to question the guy’s sanity.

Shit, the bastard’s been dead for five years and Dean is still questioning himself. Ol’ John’s probably rolling in his grave, seeing what his eldest son has turned into. Not that Dean was the son who mattered all that much to begin with, but after nothing but a constant barrage of ‘ _man up_ ’s and ‘ _you know what we did to kids like you?_ ’s, seeing Dean all doe-eyed over a scruffy jaw and toothy smiles and a dick that feels as nice as it looks might have dad’s head spinning down in Hell.

Honestly, it sounds like the kind of thing Sam would have done, all in the name of pissing him off. Sam “do-no-wrong” Winchester may have been dad’s favorite, but it certainly didn’t stop John from branding him a know-it-all little shit.

Dean’s not the little shit, though, or a know-it-all for that matter. Dean is the peace-maker, the one who kept everything running smoothly while mom was sick, and later after she’d died. Dean spent twenty-six years bending over backwards to be the good son, to do everything dad told him, and now here he is, going against everything his dad stood for.

So why on Earth is he smiling?

**oo**

Friday begins as normally as it could. Dean eats breakfast standing at the kitchen counter, reminds Jess that he’s going to be out overnight, and goes to work feeling better than he has in recent memory. His day even breezes by, whipping him up into a flurry of high energy and enthusiasm for the day’s activities.

“Careful, now,” Benny cautions as they wrap up sixth period. “You keep on like this and I’ll start to think you like it here.”

Dean rolls his eyes, though he’s still unable to stop grinning. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s looking forward to his night ahead, mostly because he doesn’t know that he’d be able to talk about it if anyone asked.

Apparently, busting into a coworker’s classroom after school and declaring you’re _ready for the fuckin’ weekend_ , is a little too telling. And then it turns downright mortifying when you realize that said coworker is actually talking to a student, and in no place to be excited for the coming festivities.

“Sorry,” Dean raises up a hand in apology at the bewildered look on Cas’ face. _Shit_ , he’s “Just… yeah. Sorry.”

He shuts the door again and thuds his forehead against the wall.

“Bye, Mr. Winchester!” he hears one of his students call.

Dean gives them a wave and a, “Have a good weekend” before he rights himself and lets out a breath. He feels the sudden shift of odds, from where they’d been nesting all day in his favor to somewhere far, far, _far_ away.

It’s another five minutes out in the hallway, another five minutes of cheerfully waving students off into the weekend before Cas’ classroom door opens and both he and the student step out.

“Come by on Monday, let me know how it goes,” Cas claps his student on the shoulder. She wishes Cas a nice weekend, and, since Dean is standing there, she wishes him one as well before she heads off down the hall.

“Well,” Cas folds his arms over his chest. “Now that we’re both ready for the fuckin’ weekend, I suppose we can go.”

“Man, I’m sorry,” Dean grabs the back of his neck. “I’m kinda dumb sometimes.”

“Dean,” Cas furrows his brow. “You should know by now that I don’t condone negative self-talk.”

They’re standing too close to one another, which they only realize when Crowley clears his throat from across the hall, laptop bag over his shoulder and keys in hand.

“You’ll do well to practice the art of subtlety, boys,” he comments lightly, and then turns toward the staff parking lot.

Rather than be embarrassed, Cas lets out a sigh and says, “Let me grab my things. Do you remember how to get to my building?”

“Yeah, easy,” Dean retraces the route in his head. “Want me to meet you there?”

“I won’t be too far behind,” Cas reassures him, and, after a quick look around, pulls Dean forward for a quick peck on the lips.

“Dude!” Dean steps back, though, oddly enough, not upset in the slightest. “Careful,” he just says.

“I looked both ways,” Cas frowns, as though such a simple gesture could possibly alert them to any and all threats. He opens his mouth to say just as much, but Cas’ eyes bore into him, as though he can look right through him, yet cannot decipher what he sees, and shuts his mouth.

They can worry about that later.

The drive over to Castiel’s apartment is filled with silent reflection and a lot of Metallica. He just needs something to bang his head to, something that will absorb all his nervous energy.

This leaves him stopped at a red light, rocking out, mouthing the words, jamming out on his air-drum set, and of course Cas would have to pull up right beside him and catch him in the act. Fuck it, he’s so deep in it already that he doesn’t stop. He goes harder, in fact, now singing at the top of his lungs as he reaches out for Cas, _“Take my hand--we’re off to never-never land!”_

For some reason, Cas’ laughter doesn’t feel mocking, even though Dean can’t hear it from a whole car over. It does make Dean want to get to his place even quicker, just so he can kiss that doofy smile off his face.

And as soon as they’re safe behind Cas’ apartment door, that’s exactly what he does.

Dean drops his bag by the door, right beside where Cas drops his, and pulls him in by the lapels of his suit jacket. God, it feels good to have this again. Cas’ fingers in his hair, his tongue in his mouth, his hard body against his own.

Cas backs them onto the couch and settles on Dean’s lap, yanking his head back so his neck is exposed. His teeth scrape Dean’s skin, not hard enough to leave a mark, but just enough to make Dean’s jeans a little uncomfortable. Only, when Dean attempts to palm Cas through his slacks, Cas pulls away and shakes his head.

“We don’t have time,” he huffs softly, scaling back so he only kisses over Dean’s cheeks and nose and forehead--nice places to be kissed, but not at all where he needs to be kissed.

“We’re not meeting them until seven,” Dean grabs Cas’ left wrist and checks his watch. “We got like three hours.”

“Not enough time,” Cas shakes his head, snagging Dean’s earlobe between his teeth. “Not nearly enough time for what I want to do to you.”

Dean can’t help the sound that escapes his throat, or the way his hips roll up into Cas’.

“I suppose it is a little cruel to leave you like this, isn’t it?” Cas grins against him. Dean wants to argue back, make some comment to remind Cas of who he’s dealing with, but nothing comes.

Mostly because Cas is on his knees and between his legs before he even has time to think.

By the time Cas has taken care of Dean, and Dean has returned the favor, they barely have time to get themselves cleaned up and ready for the night ahead. While Cas changes clothes, Dean washes up in the bathroom, splashing his face with cool water, trying to get the post-orgasm glow off of his cheeks.

“Did you bring your jacket?” Cas asks as soon as Dean returns to him.

“Yeah, why?” Dean asks just in time to see Cas slip his leather jacket on over his shoulders.

Cas catches him staring and grins, “It’s a nice night for a bike ride, don’t you think?”

Dean has been on a motorcycle exactly zero times in his life. He figured he might one day have the opportunity, but he never figured he’d be the chick in the situation. Yet, here he is, a helmet in his hands and a bundle of knots in his stomach, and Cas reminding him to _lean in._

He ends it with a smile and a comforting hand on Dean’s cheek.

“If you don’t want to, we can just take my car,” he says.

Dean shakes his head, realizing only now that the rest of him is shaking too, and reassures, “I want to. Just… take it easy, okay?”

“Of course,” Cas’ brows furrow slightly, as though he’d never thought of doing anything but. Dean lets out a breath of relief and gives Cas a smile before taking his helmet and shoving it over his head.

It’s tight, a little too tight for Dean’s liking, but that’s a good thing. There’s a little flame licking at the underside of his ribs that makes him think that, hey, maybe dying would kind of be a bummer right now.

Cas gets on the bike first and Dean slides up right behind him. His groin is pressed right up against Cas’ lower back and, fuck, it’s a damn good thing they busted one off up in the apartment, or Cas would be able to feel just how much Dean likes being on the back of his bike.

And of course Mr. Safety First won’t do anything before Dean wraps his arms around his waist and holds on tight.

The bike roars to life and Dean immediately tenses. He does not want to die, he does not want to die, he does not want to die.

Cas’ hand comes down from one of the handles and closes over one of Dean’s. They haven’t even left the garage yet and already Cas has to comfort him.

What a wussbag.

They pull out onto the street, and okay, once they get going it’s not so bad. Cas is obviously pretty practiced riding this thing.

That observation brings some rather unsavory thoughts into the forefront of Dean’s mind, and he just prays the bar isn’t much farther away, because with dirty thoughts in his head and a motor rumbling under him and Cas pressed all against his front, yeah.

This is dangerous.

They get to the bar with a miraculous dearth of erections, thankfully, though that doesn’t deter Charlie and Gabe from looking at them like they just came from a roll in the hay.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” says Cas as he tosses his jacket into the corner of the booth seat. He looks to Dean, “Would you like anything?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean makes the grave mistake of glancing across the table. “A Heineken, if they’ve got it. Just ask ‘em to open a tab for me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll cover you,” Castiel grabs his wallet out of his back pocket.

“Man, just--”

“I’m not destitute, Dean,” Cas replies, “I can buy you a beer.”

He leaves before Dean has a chance to argue back, leaving him to deal with Charlie and Gabe on his own.

“Hey, fellas,” he greets.

“Now, Dean,” Gabe tuts over the lip of his glass. “What have we told you about riding motorcycles with strange men?”

“Honestly, I thought we raised you better,” Charlie shakes her head, and laughs when Dean flips her off.

Cas returns with two beers in hand and sets one in front of Dean.

“That was fast,” Dean remarks.

“You’d be surprised where flashing bartenders can get you in this town,” Cas comments lightly as he takes his seat beside Dean, across from Charlie. Shortly thereafter, a waiter comes over with four shots on a tray.

“Birthday cake shots?” he asks, presumably because they are all grown-ass adults and not four newly twenty-one sorority sisters.

“Aw, Cassie, you shouldn’t have,” Gabriel says as Charlie leans down and closely inspects hers.

“You are correct in that assessment,” Cas picks up his shot glass. “May your thirty-fifth year be filled with as much depravity as your thirty-fourth.”

“Amen,” Gabe and Charlie both lift their glasses too, but Dean remains unmoved.

“Someone else can have mine, I’ll toast with this,” he raises his beer.

“Dean, quit being such a spoilsport,” Charlie rolls her eyes. “When it’s your birthday, we’ll all toast with hundred proof whiskey and scowls on our faces.”

“Blammo,” Gabriel snaps and looks Dean in the eye. “Up and down the hatch, kid.”

Dean makes sure to give all three of them their own disappointed, disgusted look before he picks up the shot glass and tosses back the syrupy sweet concoction.

“Oh, wow,” Charlie pulls a face. “When they say birthday cake, they really mean it.”

“Yeah, y’think,” Dean tries to scrape the taste off of his tongue with his teeth before going right for his beer. Then Cas’ knee bumps up against his under the table and Dean immediately feels a sense of calm settle in his chest.

He doesn’t even flinch when, after a little while, Cas sits back and drapes his right arm over the booth seat. Charlie and Gabe become otherwise occupied anyway, Charlie by a tall, wispy brunette at the bar and Gabriel by one of the girls hanging out at the pool table.

Or, perhaps by one of the guys playing pool.

There’s a lot rattling around up in Dean’s head right now, and the beer and cake shot do not help sort them right.

After another round of drinks, Charlie picks herself and walks over to the chick she’s been eyeing. Castiel excuses himself to the bathroom and leaves Dean all alone with Gabriel.

Gabriel, who is now staring down Dean like a dad on prom night.

“You know I’ll break your fucking neck, right?”

Dean’s eyebrows go up, “Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“Dude, I don’t--”

“I’m not interested in whatever bullshit is about to spew out of your mouth, Winchester,” says Gabriel, but he doesn’t get the chance to continue before a guy stops at their table. Dean thinks it’s one of the guys who was playing pool, and Christ he doesn’t have to sit through a Big Gay Pick-Up Attempt, does he?

“Tommy-boy,” Gabriel immediately plasters a smile onto his face. “You’re working this area now?”

Another approaches, standing beside this first Tom guy.

“And Dwayne too,” Gabriel greets. “The whole Hitler Youth is on the town tonight. Fancy that.”

“We gotta have a talk,” say Tom. “Whaddya say we take a stroll out back?”

“Y’know, I’m actually good right here,” Gabriel delivers a swift kick to Dean’s shin under the table. “Out with a friend, kinda just trying to unwind after a long week. You know how that is.”

“I won’t ask you again, Gabriel,” Tom takes a menacing step forward that has Dean up and out of the booth, adrenaline shooting from the bruise now forming on his shin.

“What’s going on here?”

Dean looks between Dwayne and Tom to see Castiel standing there, no hint of anything but business on his face.

“Fuck off, this ain’t your business,” says Tom.

“I assure you, any altercation you obviously intend on having with my brother is one hundred percent my business,” Cas crosses his arms over his chest.

Who knew a Class A nerd could look so menacing?

“Oh, good,” Tom nods to Dwayne. “He does have family. I can finally curbstomp this little shit.”

“Whoa!” Gabriel stands. “Curbstomp? What the hell do I owe you?”

“You’re two grand in the hole, you little shit,” Tom spits. “The boss is pissed. Do you have the money or not?”

Dean doesn’t miss the look Castiel gives Gabriel, nor does he miss the fear edging in Gabriel’s voice when he replies, “Look, I get paid at the end of next week--”

And like that, Gabe gets a fist to the gut.

Before he can swing again, Castiel steps in front of Gabriel and grabs Tom’s arm, twists and sends the heel of his hand directly into Tom’s nose, like this isn’t even the first time he’s done this today. Cas then shoots a look at Dwayne, who, while less aggressive now, still thinks it’s worthwhile to put up a fight.

Dean can see security-types pushing through the crowd, but if it doesn’t stop Dwayne then it doesn’t stop Cas. Only, when Dwayne comes at him, Cas blocks the attack and counters with a swift punch to the guy’s throat.

“Shit,” Cas mutters when he sees the hulking security dude coming toward him, and darts off through the crowd.

“Ah, crap,” Charlie stands upright as soon as security approaches.

“Hi there,” Dean shoots up to his feet, offering the man a smile. “Wouldn’t you know it, we were just leaving and this guy Tom here punched my friend right in the stomach.”

The security guard looks from Tom and Dwayne to Charlie and Gabe, then back to Dean.

“You’ve got thirty seconds,” he says.

Needless to say, despite fleeing in the time allotted, they receive a lifetime ban from the bar.

“What the hell was that!” Charlie exclaims as she and Dean help Gabriel back to his car.

“Some bullshit, that’s what,” Gabriel groans as he leans against his poorly kept piece of shit vehicle.

Dean doesn’t even get a chance to determine the make and model, and instead finds himself scared shitless as Cas fucking appears out of the shadows and demands, “What the fuck did you do, Gabriel?”

His tone is unlike any he’s ever heard come out of Castiel, something bigger than what one human body should be able to contain.

“I got punched in the gut, thank you for asking,” Gabe wheezes back. “Fuck, if I go out like Houdini, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Gabriel!”

“I’m serious, dickwad! What if I have internal bleeding?”

“You and I both know that you don’t,” Cas snaps.

“C’mon, man,” Gabe pleads. “Not in front of my buddies.”

“I will do this wheresoever I goddamned well please!” Cas bellows, shoulders back, chest broad and eyes like shards of ice. “Would you mind telling me why you had a couple of thugs on your ass for two thousand dollars?”

“I lost a couple hands of poker last month!” Gabriel finally shouts back. “Fucking sue me! Like you’ve never had a fucking slip before.”

“Whatever slips I have don’t land me in a debt I can’t pay, Gabriel,” Cas argues back. Dean and Charlie stand close together, terrified of crossing the line of fire. Except it’s then that Castiel realizes that they’re not alone, that Dean and Charlie are there and probably looking downright terrified. Cas deflates, now just a man in a parking lot with his idiot brother.

It’s a scene Dean is all too familiar with, but the adrenaline still pumping through him doesn’t let him feel anything but jacked beyond all reason.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Cas finally says. “Charlie, are you able to drive?”

“Yeah,” Charlie nods. “I’ll get him home for you, no problem. And, um,” she takes Gabriel’s car keys from his hand. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Cas nods silently and helps Charlie get Gabriel into the front seat. It’s not until Charlie has pulled out of the parking lot and taken off down the street that Cas allows himself to lean on the cement wall behind him and put his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says.

“It’s cool,” Dean shrugs and kicks at the loose gravel under his feet. “You, uh. You wanna talk about it?”

“Absolutely not,” Cas shakes his head.

Dean nods. It’s probably for the best, since right now he feels like he could flip a car if he wanted. What just happened was obviously fucked, and he’s going to have to ask Cas about it later, but right now, with his hair all sweaty and pasted to his forehead, his cheeks red and his eyes still full of unbridled rage, Cas is sexy as hell. Dean has been turned on by a lot of weird shit in his life, but watching the guy he’s been fucking for the last few months _throat punch a guy_ really put fuel in the tank tonight.

After another few minutes, Cas pushes himself off the wall and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Okay,” he decides. “Let’s go.”

Dean nods, not knowing what to say, mostly because he does not want to say the wrong thing with Cas so strung out and everything. He follows Cas across the lot, fits his helmet back on his head and takes his designated seat.

This time, when the motor starts, it sends a shock of pleasure up his spine. He shifts. There’s a boner on the horizon and they still have a little ways to go before they’re back at Cas’ place. The last thing this night needs is Dean busting a nut in his pants because he can’t get the visual of Cas breaking a guy’s nose out of his head.

What is _wrong_ with him.

Cas is silent while they park and tuck the helmets away, frighteningly so as they walk up to his apartment and step inside. Dean thinks he should probably just drive home. It’s not as late as he thought it would be--then again, he didn’t anticipate getting thrown out of a bar before the night even really began.

“Listen, Cas,” he begins, but Cas pulls him in by the front of his shirt and meets him in a bruising kiss.

“You were hard the entire ride back,” Cas says, snagging Dean’s lower lip between his teeth before he continues, “Tell me, are you this much of a slut with everyone you fuck, or am I special?”

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Dean hiccups before he can stop himself.

“I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer, Dean,” Cas’ lips travel over his jaw, teeth scraping and tongue soothing the reddened skin in its wake. It’s charged, makes Dean’s hairs stand on end, because _holy fuck_ , _who is this guy?_

Cas pushes Dean’s jacket to the floor, unthreads his belt and tosses it aside before repeating it on himself. This time when he latches onto Dean’s neck, he licks and sucks and bites his presence into Dean’s throat, and fuck if that doesn’t make Dean’s cock even stiffer.

He lets Cas pull him across the room and push him back onto the bed, lets Cas climb on top of him and hold him down and mark up any inch of skin that he pleases. Cas’ thigh brushes the outline of his erection, and Dean moans.

“You like that?” Cas breathes.

And whatever part of Dean’s ape brain that’s been lying dormant finally wakes, and he breathes, “Yeah.”

“You like that everyone will know what a fucking slut you are?” Cas grunts. That shouldn’t make Dean wriggle in his skin, but it does.

And, as he’s learned tonight, sometimes you just have to lean into the curves.

“Yeah,” he huffs again. “Just for you, Cas.”

It’s not the first time ‘ _fuck me_ ’ has edged up onto the tip of Dean’s tongue, but it’s by and large the first time he’s actually kind of meant it.

He arches up into Cas, shifting so he can get his shirt off while Cas works at his pants. The entire evening has his mind reeling and his body aching and the entirety of him wanting. Before Cas decides to get rid of Dean’s bottoms, he leans over and pulls the drawer of his nightstand open.

“What’re you--”

He looks over and catches a glimpse of brightly colored silicone out of the corner of his eye. Cas doesn’t go for that though, just pulls out his bottle of lube and makes to shut the drawer before Dean stops him. He pulls the drawer back out again and moves up the bed for a better look.

“Holy crap, how many toys do you need?” Dean lets out a laugh. They come in all shapes and sizes, some larger than others, and some that are crooked oddly at one end or that bulge and taper in several places.

Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s sweaty hair and asks, “Would you be able to keep your hands off your cock if I fuck myself with one of these?”

Dean swallows hard. As tantalizing an offer as that is, he looks up at Cas and asks, “Can… can I try one?”

All at once Cas’ face loses its edge. He cocks his head and asks, “Really?”

Dean lets out a breath and nods feverishly.

“You’re absolutely sure,” Cas confirms.

“Yeah,” Dean punctuates with a smile.

That hand is back in Dean’s hair, only where he expects a sharp tug and a bite to the chin, he gets Cas’ lips on his and gentle fingers trailing over his scalp.

He pulls back and sits up, pulling the drawer off of its track and setting it on the bed.

“Which one do you want?” he asks.

Dean props himself up on his elbows to get a better look, only he doesn’t know how any of this is going to fit inside him. He knows it’s possible, as he’s seen it before, but when it’s your own ass on the line, size is a little more daunting.

“You’re the expert,” he finally says. “Pick a good one.”

Cas’ smile reveals a brief glimpse of his teeth. He surveys his options then and decides to go with a slim red plug, no bigger in diameter than one of Dean’s fingers. Cas replaces the drawer and looks down at Dean.

“Naked,” is all he says, and then he adds, “Now.”

Dean scrambles to comply, pushing his pants and his boxers down all at once, hissing as the cool air of the apartment hits his erection. He looks down at where it lies flat against his belly, red and shiny and leaking already.

Cas pushes apart his legs and settles between them, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin on his inner thighs. His cock twitches, begging for attention, but he knows it’ll all be over when he does, so he waits. He waits for Cas to manhandle him back up the bed and shove that little toy inside him, but it never comes.

Instead, Cas bends and presses kisses to his stomach, up his chest and over the marks on his neck, surpassing his lips of all places and hops from the tip of his nose up to the center of his forehead. Christ, he wanted to be bent over and fucked by the badass back in the bar, and instead he gets this sweet, affectionate dweeb nosing at the underside of his jaw.

“If it’s too much, you have to tell me, okay?” Cas sits back then, hoisting Dean up by his hips so his ass rests in his lap. He’s still clothed and Dean is fucking naked but that makes it even better, somehow. Cas runs his left hand over Dean’s belly and hums, “Just relax, all right? I’ll take care of you.”

“No shit,” Dean quips back. “Just do it, please? Cas, I--I need it. I can’t wait.”

The grin that spreads over Cas’ face is downright unholy, and suddenly there’s a slick finger spreading lube over his hole.

That… is an odd sensation, but it’s not bad, and it’s not too much, so he lets out a breath and tries to will his heart from beating out of his chest.

Then the slick head of Cas’ toy presses against him, teasing but not going in until Dean smacks his head back and whines, “Please Cas, I gotta have more.”

“Since you asked so politely,” Cas smiles, and then there’s the toy pressing into him. Cas listens to every single one of Dean’s breaths, pushing the toy in bit by agonizing bit.

And then it stops.

“There,” Cas smiles. “Your first butt plug.”

“Seriously?” Dean twitches around the intrusion. “That’s it?”

Cas cocks his head and gives him this knowing smile, “I knew you were a big bottom underneath it all, waiting for your prince charming to come and put something up your ass.”

Dean scowls and shifts to smack him, but there is still very much a buttplug inside him and he hisses.

“What would you like now, Dean?” asks Cas. “I could ride you while you make friends with my toy.”

“I want another one,” Dean says.

“I’m not giving you anything bigger for your first time, Dean,” Cas replies and leans forward to kiss Dean on either cheek, and then his nose again.

“Something, please,” he keens. “C’mon. I like it, Cas. I like it so much.”

Cas may very well have just created a monster.

Fuck it, Dean will worry about it later.

“Okay, okay,” Cas breathes, the sound of the lube bottle snapping in Dean’s ears. Carefully, Cas extracts the plug and replaces it with a single finger. It’s a little different, since this is a live, moving thing inside him, attached to a man with a diabolical brain and a stupidly handsome face.

“Would you like another?” Cas asks, and Dean nods.

One finger pulls all the way out, and soon there’s two in its place, stretching Dean open at another unforgivingly slow pace. Dean can’t catch his breath, as he sits somewhere on the fine line between pleasure and pain and he’s not sure which way he’s about to fall.

Cas pauses, opens and shuts the lube again, and after he slides the rest of the way in. He strokes his thumb over Dean’s skin while his two fingers wriggle inside him.

“How does that feel?” Cas asks.

Dean swallows and decides, “Good.”

“Good,” Cas nods, sliding his fingers out and then right back in. Dean groans around the sensation, arching even further into the touch as his fingers tangle up in the bedsheets.

And okay, maybe he hadn’t believed the universality of the whole prostate thing until now, because when Cas hits the right spot it is no joke. It steals the breath right out of Dean’s chest and finds him rolling his hips, begging for more.

“Not for your first time,” Cas repeats. “This will suffice for right now.”

Dean whines, and so Cas continues, “Would you like to touch yourself, Dean?”

Heat stains his face red, sweat beading on his forehead, his upper lip, all over his entire body. Yes, yes he would love to touch himself, to release the orgasm that’s been brewing for far too long, but Cas doesn’t say he can.

So he doesn’t.

“You know how you can tell the difference between a bottom and a dirty little cockslut?” Cas asks, his voice not losing it’s round, soothing edges. “Are you paying attention?”

Dean’s throat shuts around whatever noise he’s trying to make, and Cas’ fingers speed up, working that spot inside him.

“It’s an easy tell,” Cas says, ruthlessly hitting that spot again and again, completely out of sync with the tone of his voice. He then leans down so he’s close to Dean’s ear and whispers, “Dirty little cocksluts can come without anyone touching their cock.”

Dean lets out a noise he’s pretty sure he’s never made before, his hands flying up from the sheets into Cas’ hair, gripping hard as he tips over the edge. It builds all the way from the inside and shoots out, spraying over his belly and his chest. He rides Cas’ fingers good and hard, until he’s good and spent and unable to move.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to get hit by a car. Not a real car, but the sexy equivalent thereof.

Then he has lips on his face, peppering kisses all over his skin, and a severe lack of fingers working inside him.

“That was so hot,” Cas murmurs between kisses. “You’re so perfect, Dean. So beautiful and so good for me.”

A warm fuzz coats Dean’s insides. He stretches, a little sore but ultimately feeling good.

Ecstatic, actually.

And then he realizes and looks up at Cas, “Wha’bout you?”

Cas grins and cups Dean’s face in his hands, presses a kiss to his lips and says, “Don’t worry about me. Let me get something to clean you up.”

Dean groans at being left alone buck naked on the bed, only to feel a flood of relief when Cas returns. He drags a cool washcloth over the mess on his torso, and only opens his eyes when Cas declares himself finished.

He too is naked now, though with less of an erection than Dean hoped to see.

“Why’r’nt you hard?” Dean mumbles as Cas slides up beside him.

“I told you not to worry about it,” Cas kisses his temple and gathers him up in his arms. “You’re wonderful, Dean. Absolutely wonderful.”

And before Dean drifts off, he hears himself utter, “You too.”

**oo**

Dean wakes with the vague inkling that he is both naked and not in his own bed. He looks over and sees Cas still sacked out beside him, brows relaxed and lips parted, puffing gentle breaths into the space between them. It’s light outside, so Dean knows he’s been asleep for a good long while, but he still feels as exhausted as he did last night.

_Last night._

Dean sits up, only for his stomach to tie up in knots as soon as he does. He’s a little sore where he let Cas finger him, the implications of which make him downright nauseous. Carefully, Dean takes a few deep breaths to center himself.

That guy last night, whoever he was, Dean doesn’t know that he likes him. It’s even worse when he remembers that that desperate, whiny, needy shit was him, is him, or a part of him anyway.

As soon as he can stand, Dean slips back into his clothes and stumbles the few feet to the bathroom. The sunlight makes his head pound, the smell of the plug-in air freshener kicks his empty gut into his throat and leaves him gagging.

Fuckin’ A, he can’t be hungover on top of everything else. He has shit to do.

Dean finally rips the plug-in out of the wall and hears it clatter onto the linoleum floor. Another beat and then a soft, gravelly, “Dean?” to follow.

A rush of panic and Dean shuts and locks the door.

“Dean!”

Unable to do anything else, Dean slides down the back side of the door and draws his knees up. He waits until Cas knocks on the door to reply, “What?”

“Are you all right?” Cas asks.

No, he doesn’t think that he is. But Dean doesn’t need to put that on Cas, not on top of whatever the hell he was dealing with last night with Gabe.

“Just a little hungover,” he replies, his voice scratching in his throat. Was he yelling last night? God, he knew he was being a needy fuck, but he didn’t think he’d been all that loud.

“Dean, you had a beer and a half and a shot,” Cas replies, “And last I checked you had more tolerance than a college freshman.”

Dean thuds his head against the door and takes in a shaking breath.

“Hey,” Cas’ voice comes softly this time. “Dean, will you open the door, please?”

“No,” Dean shoots back. Fuck, how can Cas even talk to him after last night? Bits and pieces keep coming back to him, how all he wanted was more, how Cas told him no, how he needed so badly to come that he let Cas fuck him and bring him over the edge with just his fingers.

God, he’s pathetic.

“... Dean?”

He keeps his mouth shut.

“Does this have anything to do with last night?” Cas asks, and Dean frowns. He wasn’t thinking out loud again, was he?

“If it does,” Cas continues, “then we have to talk about it.”

“Winchesters don’t talk,” Dean groans. “We internalize it until it turns into alcoholism and liver disease.”

“You do understand why that kind of talk concerns me, right?”

Nothing, so Cas knocks and demands, “Unlock the door.”

Fed up, Dean gets up to his knees, unlocks the door and yanks it open. On the other side, Cas sits in a pair of jeans and a gray pullover from Berklee College of Music that has definitely seen better days.

The moment he sees him, Cas breathes out a sigh of relief.

“How are you?” he asks. “And it’s very important that you be honest.”

Dean sighs and sits back, crisscross, like a kindergartener. As if he needed to feel like more of a fucking baby than he already does right now. He looks up and sees that Cas is still staring him down, and fuck, he doesn’t know that he could lie even if he thought he could get away with it.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean sighs and puts his face in his hands. “I woke up feelin’ like shit and I don’t fuckin’ know why and it’s pissin’ me off.”

He sniffs and swipes his cheeks, just to make sure he’s not crying.

Cas asks, “Is it emotional or physical?”

Dean shrugs, and Castiel assesses him.

He then asks, “Are you okay with what happened last night?”

The question kicks up another wave of nausea, but he swallows it back. Cas isn’t here to hurt him.

For some reason, Cas only ever wants to help him.

“I--yeah,” he says, though there’s enough uncertainty in his voice to give Cas pause. “I thought I did.”

“What do you mean?” Cas cocks his head, and adds, “I’m not upset or angry, I just want to know.”

Dean lets out a breath and hangs his head, “Man, I’m just being stupid. Last night was fun.”

“Dean,” Cas warns sharply. “Anything that makes you react like this isn’t stupid. Your feelings, whatever they are, are valid. Not just now, but always.”

Fingernails dig into his palm. Each and every mark Cas left on him throbs dull under his skin. Anything to distract him from the burn behind his eyes.

“I really don’t know why I feel so shitty, Cas,” he sniffs. “I swear. I liked last night, all right? I did. And now I’m pissed off ‘cause I can’t have a good night without having a panic attack the next morning.”

Cas’ eyebrows are drawn up in surprise, his blue eyes wide as he tries to study as much of Dean as he can all at once. Probably trying to find whatever the hell made him want to sleep with Dean to begin with.

His face shifts then, his spine straightens, and Cas says, “You know I had fun last night too, right? I like exploring your body with you.”

“Christ, can we never use the phrase ‘exploring your body’ again?” Dean’s face scrunches. “I already feel like enough of a fuckin’ homo without you pulling that shit.”

“Liking stuff in your ass doesn’t make you a ‘ _homo_ ’, Dean,” Cas raises his eyebrows. “Liking anal stimulation and sex with women aren’t mutually exclusive, trust me. Liking what you like doesn’t make you any better or worse a person, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Cas scoots closer then and asks, “Can I touch you?”

Dean nods, and the warmth from Cas’ palms soon settles on either of his knees. Already he feels about a dozen times better, the burning in his eyes and the air caught in his throat threatening to bust out of his body. Whether it’s from happiness or anger or utter fucking relief, Dean can’t tell.

“You’re amazing,” Cas’ thumbs run soothing circles over the denim on his thighs. “You’re kind and caring and funny, and so, so hot.”

“Aw, come on,” Dean rolls his eyes and tries to pull away, but Cas holds him firm.

“I mean it,” he says. “Watching you last night got me so worked up that I came in my pants.”

Dean’s cheeks flush red, “You fuckin’ liar. You came in here and jerked off.”

No one would ever actually enjoy a grown man begging, would they?

But there Cas is, shaking his head. He then leans forward and kisses the center of Dean’s forehead. He murmurs, “From day one you’ve had a very profound effect on me, Dean Winchester. I like making you feel good, and if last night made you feel good then I would do it again. I want you to get what you want.

“You can have whatever you need from me, Dean,” he reassures. “But you have to tell me what it is or I won’t be able to help you.”

Dean sniffs hard and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Do you have anything to eat?” he asks.

“I do,” Castiel nods. “I could make you an omelette with some toast.”

“I thought you couldn’t cook,” Dean can hear his voice go thick from the tears he’s only barely managed to contain.

“I can’t,” Cas shakes his head. “By omlette I meant I could throw some stuff in a pan with some eggs and toast you some of that bread that’s been sitting on the counter for who knows how long. I have some orange juice too.”

Cas rolls to his feet and holds out a hand.

Dean takes it.

As soon as he’s upright again, slowly and deliberately he has to move to be so, Cas wraps his arms around him. He presses their bodies together and rests his forehead on Dean’s.

This.

Dean likes this.

“Can you, uh,” he swallows. “After breakfast can you just hang with me?”

“In what capacity?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs, “Like, hold me and junk.”

That earns him a grin and a languid, tender kiss.

“Go lie in bed, relax,” Cas instructs. “I’ll be right over here, okay? If you need me, just tell me.”

“Don’t baby me,” Dean frowns.  

“I’m not,” Cas mumbles against Dean’s lips. “I’m going to make my kind, caring friend a hopefully non-lethal breakfast and then hold him until he asks me to stop. Anything that you want, it’s yours.”

Another kiss, and Cas pulls back with a smile, “I’ll take care of you.”

And after a non-lethal, not-half-bad breakfast, Cas does just that. He wraps himself and Dean in his cozy comforter and strokes Dean’s hair until that’s all there is. Just the warmth of Cas’ chest on his cheek and fingers running softly over his scalp.

_Anything that you want, it’s yours._

What he wants. Not what Cas thinks would be best for him. Nobody's got any say in this but Dean.

All he’s ever wanted was to feel better. He wants safe and warm and affection.

Maybe even a little love.

_I’ll take care of you._

It’s the first time in too long that someone’s actually made good on that promise.

 

 


	11. My Thoughts Apprehensive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING(s): discussions of past drug use, past illegal activity, mild panic attack, recalls of suicidal thoughts

The tension between Cas and Gabe eases, but every time Dean tries to ask about it, Cas adamantly insists that he doesn’t want to talk.

Honestly, Dean is kind of relieved. Even after three months, they still don’t know too much about each other. Sure, they’re friends, but there are certain things they don’t know about each other--or, at the very least, that Cas doesn’t know about him--and Dean would kind of like to keep it that way.

He and Lisa knew everything about each other.

That was a fun one to get over, especially for a twenty-year-old who didn’t even realize he had a heart that could be pulverised so easily. After a grade A heap of bullshit like that, you learn a thing or two.

Except one night, about a week before Thanksgiving, Cas is lounging on Dean’s couch. With Angus draped across his lap, Cas looks comfy in his flannel pajama pants and his worn, soft t-shirt, like he belongs here.

Like, Dean wouldn’t know what to do if Cas wasn’t here sitting next to him.

“You goin’ home next week?” he hears himself ask.

“I am not,” Cas replies, covering a yawn with his hand. “It’s too short of a break, I don’t want to drive up Thursday morning and drive down Sunday night. Too much effort for a two-person dinner.”

“Oh,” Dean nods, kind of disgusted by the effervescence in his stomach. Then he offers, “You could always come here, if you wanted.”

Cas looks at him, calculating, so Dean continues, “It’s not a big shindig or anything, I just… if you didn’t wanna be alone, you’re more than welcome.”

Baron, sensing the sudden tension in Dean’s chest, hops up onto the couch and settles over his legs. He whines that very distinctive “pet me” sound, so Dean does just that.

“Thanksgiving was never a big holiday in our family,” Cas explains. “It was more of a run of the mill dinner, we just ate turkey and we all ate at the same time.”

“Damn, Thanksgiving’s the best, though,” Dean shifts to face Cas, bringing Baron along with him. “You’re s’posed to eat ‘til you can’t move, hang with your family, and the whole house smells good. And it’s prime pie season.”

Cas smiles.

“That sounds very nice, Dean,” he says. “I would love to come.”

Without even thinking, Dean scoffs, “Yeah, I bet.”

“Tsk-tsk,” Cas shakes his head. “Such vulgarity.”

Dogs between them, Dean leans over and kisses him. He’s never invited anyone to a holiday dinner, the implications of which, he realizes just now, are heavy duty. Cas isn’t making a big deal about it, though, just occasionally gives Dean this half smile and these eyes.

Dean doesn’t know what the hell it means, but he knows he likes it way more than he should.

What it does mean, however, is that Gabriel will be joining them. It’s not even twenty-four hours after Cas accepted the offer and Gabe starts hounding Dean for what he can bring.

_“Wine? Weed?”_

_“Gabriel!”_

_“What!? I’m being polite.”_

By the next Monday, Charlie has also decided that she would like to join the Winchesters for Thanksgiving dinner. At least she asks if she can come, and actually offers to bring something that they actually need.

It’s only then that Sam intervenes--six people in their apartment, plus the dogs? Anyone else tags along and they’re going to have to feed people at the table in shifts.

And then Dean realizes it’s the last Thanksgiving they’ll have before Sam and Jess go from a pair to three of a kind.

Of course it would have to happen while he’s in the middle of supervising soccer drills. Dean recognizes this particular pressure in his chest--not just a hand squeezing his heart, but an iron vice clamping down and squashing the life right out of it. He manages not to stumble as he walks over to the bench at the edge of the field and takes a seat.

Under his sleeves, he can feel his arms prickle with the sensation of phantom slashes.

It makes him remember the void in his chest, the way his face just wouldn’t move, it makes him remember sinking further and further into that thick, bubbling tar pit.

Alone.

“Mr. Winchester?” he hears one of his students ask, much further away than he remembers her being. When he looks up he sees that a few sets of kids have moved in, curious but still keeping a reasonable distance.

“Sorry guys,” Dean clears his throat, even though his equilibrium is still off. “Just got a little head rush there.” He stands and claps as loudly as he can, “Let’s go! Slackers do laps!”

Whatever powers that be are obviously on his side for once. They get him through the last of sixth period, put him on autopilot so he can get everything put away in the equipment room. He barely makes it into his office before he snaps out of it and into acute panic.  

He gasps for a breath he can’t get, struggles to get a hold of one shred of logic that he’s not sure even exists anymore.

His ass hits the hard ground beneath him, his back slides down the sharply stuccoed wall. He’s all but ready to cash in his chips, to sit back and wait for the grim reaper to finally come and take him, his office door opens and he hears a deep, drawl.

“Aw, hell.”

Suddenly there’s an empty brown paper bag in his hands and Benny--he thinks it’s Benny--tells him to put it up to his mouth and breathe. Out of desperation he does just that, the bag expanding and contracting so rapidly that Dean almost panics more.

But the methodical crunch of the paper bag and the recycled air put him right, even him back out. When Dean realizes what the hell just happened, his cheeks start to glow and his eyelids start to droop.

“You all right there, brother?” Benny asks. Benny… Benny’s good. Benny won’t hurt him.

Dean wants to say, “I almost lost my shit out there” or “Thanks for saving my ass just now”, but his mouth won’t even open. He has to resort to a nod.

“You’re all right,” Benny reassures him. “Senior year of high school they made me starting quarterback. Game night came around, my teammates had to drag my sorry ass out of the locker room every single time.”

Unfortunately, empathy doesn’t make him feel a whole lot better.

He manages to find his voice at least, Benny’s presence a comfort, as always.

“Thanks,” he says, and offers a smile.

“Not a problem, brother,” Benny stands, then offers to help Dean to his feet. “You’ve been workin’ hard. Take it easy this weekend, all right? You got four whole days ahead of you.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods and swipes at the tracks of wet on his cheeks. “Some time off will be… yeah, it’ll be good.”

“Right,” Benny nods. “You sure you’ll be all right?”

Dean smiles, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Have a nice break.”

“You too, Dean,” Benny gives him a friendly wink and heads out the door. He leaves it open, which is probably good. There’s not much he can do with an open door except wait for someone else to walk through it.

Fortunately, Cas chooses exactly that moment to do so. He’s all packed up and ready to go, his laptop bag over his shoulder and car keys in his hand. When he sees Dean, however, the jovial smile on his face disappears.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Fuck, will everyone please stop asking me that?” Dean groans. When Cas doesn’t respond, Dean opens his eyes. He’s just standing there, all calculating and serious-faced, and Dean can’t help that raw, angry, exposed feeling in his chest.

The staring has gone on too long, and Dean snaps, “What?!”

Castiel folds his arms, “I came to say goodbye for the day, but Dean, if there’s something you need to--”

“I don’t--” Dean cuts himself off, takes a breath and resumes under a calmer tone, “I don’t need to talk, I don’t need to anything. I’m--” he cuts himself off again. How did he get to this part already?

“I’m sorry.”

Castiel nods back and shuts the door behind him. He puts his bag on the floor and approaches Dean with extreme caution.

“Christ,” Dean sighs. “I’m just an asshole, all right? I won’t bite you or anything.”

Cas’ hands come up and cup his jaw, thumbs stroking along the stubble on his cheek.

Where Dean thinks he’s going to get a kiss, he gets Cas’ arms around him and his head on his shoulder.

A hug.

Instinctively, Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ middle, grips the stiff fabric of his blazer and hangs on for dear life. Another kind of familiarity seeps in this time, cutting through the ice in his veins and soothing.

Just soothing.

“Cas,” his voice rasps.

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean just hugs him tighter, pure relief pumping through him, and waits until his body decides it can move once more.

Though he pulls back, Cas’ hands don’t leave him. They slide down his arms, gently cuff around his biceps. Dean lets out a soft sigh.

“I have a proposal,” says Cas. “If you’d like to hear it.”

Dean hums, but that’s the extent of his response.

“You could follow me home, I could pack for a few nights, and then come home with you,” Cas’ hands rub a very specific type of warmth into Dean’s arms. It’s enough to remind Dean that, even if that is just on the razor’s edge of his comfortability level, Cas will do whatever he wants.

He clears his throat and nods, “We can do that.”

**oo**

It’s five o’clock in the morning when Dean’s anxiety spikes and jolts him out of sleep. Cas is snuggled up close to him, still fast asleep. Dean can’t say he’s surprised--he knows he knocked out early last night. In fact, all he really remembers is eating dinner, vaguely excusing himself for the night, and now he’s here.

“Dean?” Cas shifts.

“Yeah, hey,” Dean rubs his eyes. “Sorry, couldn’t sleep.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” says Cas, his voice thick and his eyes barely open. “You went to sleep pretty early. How are you feeling?”

“Better, I guess,” Dean rolls over, scoots closer to Cas, and sighs into the subsequent embrace. Cas presses his lips to the center of his forehead, to the tip of his nose and down to his lips. Cas shifts so he’s on top of him, and kisses him again. Morning breath aside it’s kind of nice, just making out like a couple of kids with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” Cas asks when he pulls back. Everything in Dean’s gut pulls tight, but for whatever reason, he knows he could speak if he wanted to.

And Cas looking down at him like that, unbroken rapt attention focused all on him, it’s as unsettling as it is comforting.

“I don’t know,” Dean admits. “One minute I’m fine, the next I can barely hold it together.”

“Did something happen?” Cas strokes his hair. “Did someone say something?”

Dean shakes his head.

He swallows and draws in a shaky breath, “I gotta go start the turkey.”

“Dean,” Cas sighs as Dean slides out from underneath him. He’s not going to ruin one of his favorite holidays with a goddamn sob story. It’s not the time or place. He’ll talk to Cas about it later, when there isn’t turkey and pie and potatoes on the horizon.

“Dean,” Cas insists, and so Dean looks back at him. He’s sitting up on the bed, crisscross, determined.

“Cas, I don’t wanna talk about it, all right?” Dean grabs the back of his neck. “Look, we can do this later, but--man, I just wanna go make some food.”

Cas studies him for a few moments before he’s hit hard by a yawn. So, Dean leans down and gives him a kiss, “It’s early. Go back to sleep, baby.”

… wait, what the fuck did he just say?

Cas doesn’t say anything about it, thank god. He does give Dean a slight lingering look, but he curls back up in bed so easily that Dean doesn’t want to call any unnecessary attention to it. Hopefully, Cas will just forget about it.

Once the boys realize he’s up, Dean is pestered incessantly until he feeds them. He only just takes the turkey out of the fridge when Baron lets out a whine and nudges Dean’s leg.

“I know,” Dean reassures him. “I’m gonna take you guys out in a second. Do you mind if I do person things first?”

Baron whines again and joins Angus at the door, both of them squirming with anticipation.

Downstairs, while Angus relieves himself, Baron gets distracted by a squirrel. Dean knows the poor guy misses hunting and wide open spaces. Angus will plop down anywhere and just chill out, but Baron needs the stimulation of the outdoors.

As if Dean needed any reason to feel worse than he already did.

Back upstairs, Dean opens up the patio door, despite the cold, just so Baron can get a little more fresh air.

As expected, Dean loses himself in food prep. It’s invigorating, though, maybe because he knows that, yes, he can do this. And he’s damn good at this, too.

By the time he opens up the oven and slides the turkey in, Jess is up and making herself a pot of tea. She’s in one of Sam’s t-shirts, which hangs far enough down on her that it may as well be a dress. Though it’s impossible to see at the moment, her baby bump has officially started to show.

“Do you want any tea?” Jess asks as the kettle starts to boil. She switches off the burner and pulls a variety of tins down onto the counter. “It might make you feel better.”

“Who says I need to feel better?” Dean asks, just as he realizes that he’s forgotten to take his meds. He inches over to the cabinet above the microwave and tries to take them as discreetly as possible.

“Dean, you went to bed at eight o’clock last night,” Jess pours hot water into a teapot, over some very floral-smelling leaves. “Cas said that you had an episode?”

“It wasn’t an episode,” Dean idly scratches at the angel on his forearm. “I kinda freaked a little, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be carted off to the booby hatch.”

“No one is saying that you are,” Jess sets the timer on the stove and crosses her arms over her chest. “You have to know that we’re going to worry about you no matter what. We’re your family, Dean, and like it or not, you’ve given us plenty of reasons to be worried.”

Dean groans and decides it’s about time to start prepping green beans. He could do with snapping the ends off of something right now, and at least doing this won’t make him look too insane.

About a quarter of the way through the bag of green beans, when Jess has taken the seat across from him at the table, a cup of tea in hand, Dean says, “I think I realized that you and Sam are gonna have a kid. I mean, I knew that, but I don’t think I really realized what it implied, y’know?”

“And what does it imply?” Jess asks, head cocked in genuine interest.

Dean shrugs, “I don’t know. Babies are a big thing. You guys are starting your own family, we live in a crappy little apartment. A couple months from now, there’s not gonna be much room for a weird uncle, y’know?”

He doesn’t look at Jess, because he knows the face she’s giving him. He doesn’t need it right now. He doesn’t need to feel worse about the whole goddamned situation than he already did.

“That’s what this is about?” she asks. “Dean, you’re part of our family. You’re always going to be. Sam doesn’t have anyone else--”

“Yeah, but he’s going to,” Dean accidentally snaps.

“Stop that,” Jess interjects firmly. “Dean Winchester, just because Sam will have another blood relative on the planet does not mean that he will stop caring about you. And yes, this place is tiny, but Sam is doing really well right now. We can find a bigger place, one that has room for the four of us.”

Dean throws down his green beans and buries his face in his hands.

“Please,” Jess’ voice comes out softer this time, “Please don’t let these feelings consume you again. If not for yourself, then at least for Sam. I don’t think he could handle almost losing you a second time, and you know what? Neither could I. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, Dean. You’re as much my brother as you are Sam’s.”

He can’t cry. He won’t cry.

He might choke a little bit, but he’s not going to cry.

Dean stands up and busies himself with making a pot of coffee. Sam and Cas will be awake soon, and, to be honest, he could use a cup himself.

Only, when he turns around, leaving the coffee to percolate, Jess is right behind him. Without warning she gets up on her toes and envelops Dean in a great big bear hug.

Oddly enough, even after her impassioned plea, Jess’ arms around him is what ends up making him feel better.

The rest of the morning passes quickly after that. Sam and Cas wake up; after everyone is caffeinated and awake,  they put on stupid TV, they tidy up for their coming guests, and finish putting everything in order not a moment too soon.

Gabriel and Charlie arrive at the same time, Gabriel with a bottle of wine in hand and Charlie with an interesting-looking potato something.

“It’s vegan,” she explains. “I’m not vegan, but someone didn’t tell me if there would be anyone with dietary restrictions.”

She glares at Dean over the tops of her glasses.

“Anyway, it’s pretty tasty,” she continues.

“Thank you,” Jess beams as she takes the dish from Charlie, though she appears to be more thankful for the extra estrogen. Not that Dean can blame her.

Gabriel, meanwhile, has taken to sitting on the floor beside Angus, scratching him behind the ears while Baron hops up to sniff his hair. The boys are good judges of character, he has to remind himself, and if they like Gabe he can’t be that much trouble.

But Dean can definitely sense the tension between him and Cas. They talk, they joke, but there’s a disconnect there that he’s yet to see between the two of them.

“Is there anything I can help with?” asks Cas just as Dean pulls a bag of apples out of the crisper drawer.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean hands them over. “You wanna peel apples for pie?”

“You make your own pie?” Cas grins.

“Yeah, so?” Dean feels his stomach drop before he can help it. He knows it’s not the manliest thing a guy could do, but--

“I didn’t know you baked, is all,” Cas shrugs. “Do you have a peeler?”

Dean hands one over and proceeds instead to start making pie crusts.

“And I have to say, I didn’t know the extent to which you cooked,” Cas then admits.

“Ah, yeah,” Dean clears his throat. “My mom was a really good cook. I hung out with her a lot in the kitchen.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Dean feels a fond smile creep up on his face. “When we were kids, like, single digits and stuff… my dad was kinda gone a lot.”

“For work?” Cas cocks his head. “I thought he was a mechanic.”

“Nah, he never had to travel for work,” Dean clears his throat, happy to have the tactile task of making pie dough to distract him. “He just wasn’t a good dad, y’know? Woulda rather spent the night on a bar stool than at the dinner table. I always told myself that mom must’ve seen something in him, but I don’t know what the hell it coulda been. By the time I was ten, they were fighting every day. They actually started talking kinda seriously about splitting, but--”

His throat closes around the rest of the sentence, but something about the ball of dough forming under his fingers makes him continue, “But then my mom got diagnosed with lung cancer like, two minutes later.”

“Dean,” he hears Cas’ soft voice curl over his name and soak into his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Never smoked a day in her life,” Dean shakes his head. “Isn’t that fucked?”

He finally looks back at Cas, only to find that he’s no longer peeling apples, and is instead just staring at Dean with that pitying face. Except it doesn’t feel like pity coming from Cas, not anymore.

Dean swallows, “My dad was kinda locked in after that. All our money started going to her medical bills, and she was pretty much down for the count while she went through treatment. I had to pick up a lot of the slack. My dad worked so much that it was just me’n Sammy most of the time. I had to feed him, make sure he got to school, did his homework, and then I had to make sure mom had everything she needed and it… I don’t know, it fuckin’ sucked.”

Dean pauses to wipe at the wetness on his cheek, only to find that Cas is now close enough to do so for him.

“I didn’t realize how much she protected me ‘til she couldn’t do it anymore,” he says. “My dad was such a fuckin’ dick. She knew it, Sam knew it, but I just--we had enough problems, y’know? Why the fuck did he want to make it harder?”

He leans into Cas’ hand, where it it cradles his cheek.

“The worse she got, the worse he got,” Dean murmurs. “Four fuckin’ years, Cas. Four years watching my mom die and my dad never had the fuckin’ decency to take over. Any time Sam tried to help, he told Sam to back off, that he was too young to see something like this, but when I tried to pull away, he just--”

Dean chokes again, and before he can say anything else, Cas wraps him up in his arms and holds him close. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen today, and yet here he is, burying his face in Cas’ neck and holding on for dear sweet fucking life.

He sat with mom as she left him.

He took Sam to the airport and watched him leave him.

Lisa couldn’t handle all the baggage and left him too.

Then one day he came home to find dad on the couch, already gone.

And as if that hadn’t been enough, he stood next to his little brother at the altar as he left him, yet again.

He sat with his sister-in-law as he found out that, for a third time, another part of Sam would be leaving him.

He’s been in freefall for the last twenty years, and only now has someone bothered to reach their arms out and catch him.

“Oh, shit,” he hears Sam say, and immediately Dean pulls back. He swipes at his face and snorts back all the snot that’s built up, but he’s shaking way too hard to pretend that he’s okay.

“Hey, man,” Sam rests a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been up since the asscrack of dawn. Jess and I can take over. I’m not babying you!” Sam insists quickly at the look Dean must be giving him. “A couple of pies aren’t worth the mental breakdown. Go take a nap or something. I promise, it’ll be okay.”

All right, maybe Dean doesn’t give Sam enough credit where it’s due. He’s actually grown a lot from the eighteen-year-old who left Lawrence and never came back.

John Winchester may not have been fit to be a parent, but at least he made one kid who might not be half bad at it.

Cas accompanies him to his room, and thankfully they don’t draw too much attention to themselves on the way. He draws all the blinds shut, blocks out as much light as he can, and then asks, “Is there anything else you need?”

Dean scoots over on his mattress and says, “You.”

**oo**

Dean doesn’t sleep, but neither does Cas. They lie together, wrapped up in one another, affording Dean the opportunity to wind down and put himself back into neutral. By the time he actually feels up to returning to the festivities, it’s time to eat.

Sam and Jess did a pretty decent job of finishing up. Even the pies, which are cooling on a rack on the counter, smell divine.

“Nice job on the pies,” he marvels at Sam.

“That wasn’t us,” says Sam. “Gabriel’s actually a pretty decent pie-maker, judging by how those smell.”

“Fuck you, my pies are fabulous,” Gabriel calls from the other room.

It’s just how Dean remembers it. Before dad went off the deep end, before mom got sick, before Sam was old enough to realize he was surrounded by idiots. The apartment is warm. Turkey and stuffing and potatoes hang heavy in the air, the smell of pies just underscoring. They’ve managed to squish six place settings, plus all the food onto their tiny Ikea table.

In spite of his earlier outburst, Dean’s chest feels lighter than it has in years. He even finds himself laughing so hard at one point that he almost Blutos a mouthful of mashed potatoes all over Charlie across the table.

He can’t help but wonder if this is the universe trying to make up for so many shitty holidays that have come before. Or maybe it’s because someone else knows about the endless heaps of bullshit he’s had to shovel for the last three decades and still didn’t run away, who in fact stepped in to prop him up when he was in danger of falling.

For the first time in a long time, quite possibly in forever, Dean actually feels like he has a real, honest-to-god family.

After, while Cas and Charlie start on dish cleanup (Jess’ protests falling on deaf ears), Dean takes a seat out on the patio and breathes in the autumn air. It’s still warm out, though with a slight chill in the air that nips at the back of Dean’s neck.

“Hey, kid, you mind if I join you?”

Gabriel stands in the doorway, waiting for a yes or no. Dean scoots over on their Goodwill bench and nods.

Once seated beside him, Gabriel nudges the sliding door shut.

“So, I’m gonna go ahead and assume you know that I know you’re schtuping my brother.”

“Wow, you are a master of tact,” Dean nods, too full and too tipsy to be anxious about the impending conversation.

“I’ve known for a while,” Gabe continues. “Like, since the morning after you guys banged at the bar.”

Dean’s stomach does drop at that, and he groans.

“Oh, relax,” Gabriel snarks back and then takes a deep breath. “I knew, and I’ve known that Cas has had it pretty bad for you since, but I guess I didn’t realize how much.”

Gabe looks at him then, “Cas is the best person I know, okay? Out of anyone I’ve ever met, he’s got the biggest heart. He helped me out of a jam nobody even knew I was in, and he’s done it multiple times. Never asked for a goddamn thing in return.”

Dean feels his eyebrows furrow.

“For the sake of both our sanity, could you can the cryptic shit?”

“Fuck off,” Gabriel snaps. “I got into some bad shit in high school. Cas was busy with his car and his boyfriend, otherwise he would’ve stopped me before I even started. There was a street racing circuit up in our area, and I kinda got sucked into it. The gambling side of it, anyway. I royally fucked myself out of a shitload of money that I didn’t have, and when Cas found out he didn’t lecture me. He just looked at me and told me everything was gonna be fine.”

“How old were you guys?” Dean asks, not sure of what else he can say to something like that.

“Sixteen,” Gabriel shakes his head, like the memory alone leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Cas started racing, told me exactly how much to put down on him in a given race, and--fuck.”

Gabriel leans forward, elbows on his knees as he continues, “He got my ass out of debt in a few races. Except then they realized we were working together, which just royally fucked us.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean marvels, unable to wrap his head all the way around this. He knew Cas raced, he told him as much, but fuck if he knew why he raced. Dean just figured he liked the adrenaline rush.

“And when I was in college?” Gabriel continues. “I got into the drug scene. Like, way into it.”

Dean catches him idly scratching at his forearm, at which point he realizes he’s never seen Gabriel wearing a t-shirt before. Peppered up both arms, Dean can see the faintest traces of track marks.

“Anyway, he got me outta that too,” Gabriel says. “Even took off from school until he was sure I was okay. And that scrape a couple weeks ago? He got those guys off my ass for good. That’s what he does, though. He fights for the people he loves, but if he’s not careful, he’ll fight until he can’t do it anymore. He’ll put everything he has into someone else before he even thinks about himself.”

Gabriel looks him in the eye, “People aren’t all that good at having someone like Castiel in their lives without taking advantage of their kindness. I like you, Dean, I really do. I think you’re a good guy. Please don’t break my brother’s heart.”

Dean doesn’t know that he’s ever heard such an earnest request leave Gabriel’s mouth.

“I… I won’t,” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know why anyone would.”

“People are dicks,” Gabriel shrugs and stands. “Don’t be a dick.”

Dean nods, just as the sliding door opens and Cas pops his head outside.

“We’re going to start on pie in a few minutes,” he says, then looks between both Dean and Gabe and lowers his eyebrows. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing you’d disapprove of, mother,” Gabe pats him on the cheek and turns back to Dean. “C’mon, gigantor told me you’ve got a hard-on for pecan pie. I did one up nice for you.”

Gabriel slides past Cas and into the apartment, leaving Dean with him.

Looking at Cas now, it’s strange, having his head so full of Gabriel’s divulgences. It brings Dean to his feet and over to Cas. A long-since felt warmth blooms inside Dean, something he told himself he could never and would never feel again. Something he learned would never be worth the pain that came from reshaping the battered bloody pulp in his chest back into the shape of a heart.

“Dean?” Cas cocks his head.

All Dean can think to say is, “Thank you. I mean it, Castiel. Thank you for everything.”

Confused, Cas returns, “Of course, Dean.”

Dean cradles Cas’ face in his hands, then leans in to kiss him. There’s no way this could convey what’s pounding through Dean’s core right now, but it will just have to do. Not that Cas appears to mind; he just wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders and presses them close.

When they come back in for pie, nobody says anything, despite the fact that they were very obviously seen. Dean fights the blush that threatens to stain his cheeks, just dishes himself up a slice of all three pies--apple, pumpkin, and of course, pecan.

Dean stuffs his face until he’s pretty sure he’s going to explode. Even though Sam turns on the game and waves Dean over, Dean shakes his head and drags himself back into his bedroom, with Cas close behind. Angus and Baron tail after them, trying to lick the remnants of food off of their fingers.

Bellies protruding and settled yet again in bed, Cas and Dean huddle up as closely as their overstuffed bodies will allow. And because his boys can’t take a hint, they too hop up on the bed, Angus settling across the foot of the bed and Baron between them.

It’s sheer, unadulterated happiness--a stark contrast to the darkness that had been roiling inside him not twenty-four hours before.

“Cas?”

“Hm.”

“I’m glad I met you.”

It’s kind of nice to hear, “I’m glad I met you too” echoed back in such a rich, sleepy voice.


	12. Beneath My Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING(S): talks of past drug abuse and past abusive relationships, triggered panic attacks. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, bottom-ish Dean again.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to find a place over here?”

The waistband of Dean’s boxers snap into place around his waist only a second before he hops back into Cas’ bed, draping himself over Cas’ still naked, still overstimulated body. He pushes Cas’ sweat-dampened hair up off his forehead, presses kisses to his hairline, seemingly employing any method of avoidance to keep himself from answering.

Cas hums, “Not that that’s not lovely, but I did ask you a question.”

“Man,” Dean sighs. “No duh it would be easier, but you’ve met Sam. No way ol’ mother hen would let me out of his sight. Plus, you wanna find a building over here that’s got ample room for my brood?”

Castiel lets out a sigh and runs his fingers over the scruff on Dean’s jaw.

More than anything, he wishes Dean could just stay with him. Not live with him, but… stay. Just for a little while.

“It’ll be better now that we’re off for winter break,” Dean smacks a kiss to his lips. “Few days here, a few days at my place, nowhere to go, nothing to do… sounds pretty good, right?”

“Except for the fact that I’ll be with my mother in Modesto for most of the break,” Castiel considers, and Dean hangs his head.

“Fuck me, that’s right,” he mutters. “You have to go?”

“Dean, I haven’t seen my mother in two years,” says Cas. “That’s too long even for us. And I promised I would help her move. For the love of god, the woman is nearly seventy.”

“How old is she again?” Dean offers a cheeky grin.

“You’re not funny,” Castiel informs him.

“C’mon, I can’t remember.”

“You are a child.”

“She’s not seventy--”

“Dean--”

“But she’s not sixty-eight--hey!”

Dean cackles as Castiel flips him over and pins him to the mattress. It’s been like this pretty much since Thanksgiving. Whatever they’d been holding onto, their grips finally loosened, and god help him if it doesn’t make Castiel’s chest overflow.

Because mental illnesses aside, Dean is a happy person, and a very fun person. Not many people could get Castiel on board with going to the movies in their pajamas for an eleven o’clock showing of a movie they’re just going to make out all the way through anyway. And Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever dated anyone so genuinely excited about 1980s cult movies.

But that’s just it: Castiel isn’t sure that he and Dean _are_ dating, and he doesn’t want to ask just in case they’re not, and Dean gets weirded out and never wants to see him again.

He knows that’s reason enough that they need to talk about it, but every time Castiel tries to work up the nerve, Dean does something affably undignified and it makes Castiel’s heart swell to ten times its original size.

“How long are you in for?” asks Dean, pulling Castiel back to the fact that, yes, he and Dean will be apart for the longest time since they first met.

That should not leave him feeling cold, especially with The Human Furnace underneath him, but it does.

“Two weeks,” Castiel replies, threading his fingers through Dean’s ever-lengthening light brown hair. “Leaving tomorrow and coming back on the fifth.”

Dean lets out a noise of disapproval and pulls Castiel in closer--so close that Castiel isn’t even sure that Dean will let him go.

“You’re very affectionate today,” Castiel remarks.

“You rather me be de-ffectionate?” asks Dean.

“‘Unaffectionate’ is the word you’re looking for, stud,” Castiel chuckles.

“Can’t help it,” Dean yawns. “I shot the last bit of my brain into that condom.”

Castiel laughs and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead.

“Wait,” Dean frowns. “That means you’re gone for your birthday?”

“Aw, you remembered my birthday,” Cas cuffs him on the jaw. “You ol’ so-and-so.”

“Oh my god, you need to stop talking like Gabriel,” Dean covers his face. “Boner killer.”

“If you can get an erection after what we just did, I will be very,” Cas kisses one cheek, “very,” the other cheek, “impressed.”

He ends on Dean’s lips, drawing a soft breath out of Dean’s chest.

Castiel pulls back, smiling. How could he not smile with Dean Winchester underneath him like this?

“I think I started getting dressed too soon,” Dean swallows, and Castiel nods.

“Yes, I’d say you did.”

He kisses Dean again, hooking his fingers into the elastic of his boxers, “Much, much too soon.”

**oo**

“Well, well, if you don’t look like you been sucker-punched by the long hard dick of love.”

Castiel can’t even comment on the absurdity of the statement, just pops the trunk for Gabriel’s duffel bag.

“Good baby gravy, what the hell did you two get up to last night?” Gabriel asks, buckling himself into the passenger’s seat.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Castiel shrugs. “Why?”

“Nah,” Gabriel shakes his head. “You’re just glowing, darling, thought I’d ask.”

Castiel only now feels his face heat up. He didn’t think he looked any different. He certainly doesn’t feel any different. He pulls down his visor mirror and checks. There’s nothing different about his face, that he can tell.

The drive back home is bland, entirely uninteresting, and it smells like cows in more than one place. Usually, Gabriel will sleep through most of the ride, affording Castiel a period of quiet reflection. Today, that does not seem to be the way Gabriel will be conducting himself.

They’re barely an hour into their trip when Gabriel says, “Shall we address the Winchester-shaped elephant in the room?”

“What about him?” Castiel frowns. “He told me you did your big brother scare tactic song-and-dance already.”

“Cassie,” Gabriel levels a look at him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“You know, you can’t just say that and expect people to know what the hell you want them to say back,” Castiel shifts in his seat, pulling into the right-hand lane to let the Subaru behind him pass.

“Dean, you fuckhead,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Specifically your feelings for him?”

“What about them?”

“The fact that you got stars in your eyes and that fuckin’ doofy ass smile on your face, ya mook,” Gabriel shifts to better face him. “Cas.”

“What?”

“Castiel.”

“I will leave you on the side of the road, Gabriel,” Castiel snaps. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I want you to think long and hard about the last time you felt this good.”

“If you know I’m feeling good, why would you try to discourage me from feeling so?”

“Because you’re in love with the guy and you do really stupid shit when you’re in love!”

Castiel almost runs off the road into the dry yellow grass on the side of the highway, but thankfully catches himself and keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Love?

“I’m not in love with him,” says Castiel, more for his own sake than Gabriel’s, he too belatedly realizes. “Of course I care very deeply for him, and I think he’s a wonderful person, but… Gabriel, we’re just sleeping together.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Gabriel snaps. “You’re not just sleeping together. And even if that’s how he feels, it’s obviously not how you feel.”

“I appreciate your input, but this doesn’t concern you,” Castiel replies coolly.

“Except it does concern me, because I seem to be the only person on the planet who bothers to look out for you,” Gabriel says.

“I’m not discussing this any further.”

And that’s the end of it. Even if Gabriel keeps talking, Castiel doesn’t reply. It makes for a rather tense rest of the drive, but Castiel refuses to let his brother insert himself into his affairs. He knows he’s had some questionable relationships in the past, and become emotionally attached to people who were more or less emotionally unavailable, but.

Meg was wickedly smart, drop-dead sexy, and while she may have been stunted when it came to affection, she wasn’t exactly the ice queen Gabriel made her out to be. She was sweet when she wanted to be, and Castiel knows she tried to love him like he loved her, but in the end she just wasn’t capable. It was a good lesson to learn, that all people simply don’t experience love and affection the same way.

Dean is affectionate, though. Once you get him out of his head and out among the rest of the world, he’s wonderful. He’s wonderful anyway, in or out of his own head--a breathtakingly gorgeous soul wrapped up in an equally gorgeous human body. To think that Gabriel could even lump him in with Meg, or Ephraim, really just boils his blood.

… oh, boy.

Twenty minutes outside of Modesto, Castiel realizes, “I’m in love with Dean.”

“Whoop, there it is.”

“Shut up, okay!” Castiel grips the steering wheel hard, “Fuck…”

“Cas?”

“Fuck!”

Castiel pulls over off the highway as quickly as he can, only barely shifting the car into park before he hops out and kicks at a patch of dirt.

Fucking hell, again?

“Cas!” he hears Gabriel before he feels a hand on his arm. Castiel kicks again, this time at a dead plant that actually turns out to be a tumbleweed, which ends up getting caught on his foot.

“Goddamn it!” he shouts, heat radiating up and out of his bones and soaking into the rest of him.

“Would you hang on, you fuckin’ spaz!” Gabriel shouts over traffic and places Castiel’s hand on his shoulder for balance, so he can lift Castiel’s leg and remove the offending dead brush from his foot. “Christ, you’re in love, not carrying out orders for mass genocide.”

“I know, I know,” Castiel rubs his hands over his face. It’s not the end of the world--by and large, it should be a good thing.

“I didn’t point it out to be a dick,” says Gabriel. “I just wanted you to be aware before you did anything stupid.”

“Like what?” Castiel asks.

“Well,” Gabriel stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. “You can love someone, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop looking out for yourself. In your case, that’s all the more reason to take extra care to look out for yourself. You’ve got a bigger heart than anyone I know, Castiel, more than enough to go around. Just don’t short yourself any of the love, okay? You matter, first and foremost.”

It’s a lecture he’s received several times before, though for some reason it feels like this is the first time the words actually resonate.

He nods, and says, “Thank you, Gabriel.”

Gabriel smiles back, only to tense the second Castiel pulls him into a hug.

“I mean it,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Ugh, shut up,” Gabriel groans as he hugs right back.

**oo**

It’s no surprise that his mom doesn’t have a lot of stuff to move. She’s been on her own for a long while, and while she’s by no means living a life free from material possessions, she only has about ten or so boxes piled in her barren living room.

“Spare your amazement,” says Naomi. “I haven’t packed up my office yet.”

“Well, that explains a hell of a lot,” Castiel nods, slipping his overnight bag off of his shoulder. He offers her a warm smile then and greets, “Hello, mother.”

“Hello, Castiel,” she returns, and pauses to give him that obligatory motherly peck on the cheek. “No Gabriel with you this time?”

“I already dropped him off at his dad’s,” Castiel then catches a yawn in his hand. Not much sleep last night, coupled with driving almost nonstop for five hours… it takes its toll.

“Have you eaten?” she asks, again out of maternal obligation.

“At some point today,” Castiel nods. “Not recently… I’m not all that hungry, actually.”

This gives his mother pause.

“Are you feeling well?”

No, he’s not. He’s still queasy from his freak-out on the side of the road. There are exactly three texts from Dean waiting in his phone, and he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to respond to them.

“I’m fine,” he manages to lie. “How are you?”

She starts discussing her last semester in great detail--the uncaring students, the budget cutbacks, one of her colleagues who ‘wouldn’t know his ass from a supermassive blackhole’.

“You like that one?” Castiel grins as he piles a stack of books into a cardboard box. “Do you use it on your students?”

“Yes, and everyone thinks it’s about as amusing as you’d expect,” she sighs.

“It’s all right,” Castiel yawns again. “I once proposed we change ‘history’ to ‘ourstory’ and one of my students actually ‘boo-ed’ me from the back of the class.”

Though she may not approved of where his academic interests eventually lead him, there’s no doubt that teaching is one of the only things they’ve ever truly been able to bond over. He starts telling her about his new job at his new school, feeling not unlike a teenager again. She’s probably listening as much now as she did then, asking, again, only out of obligation. He no longer expects her to engage, and that lowered sense of expectation has done wonders for their relationship, if Castiel does say so himself.

“So, how long have you been sleeping with Dean?”

Castiel drops his armful of encyclopedias, which only narrowly miss crushing his feet.

“What?” he hears his voice crack.

“You’ve mentioned him at least every other sentence,” she replies. “Subtlety has never been one of your strong suits.”

“As I recall, I dated my first boyfriend for a whole year before you knew about him,” Castiel points out, and mother rolls her eyes because, come on, he’s right.

“I don’t want to see you letting emotions cloud your judgment again, Castiel,” she says, voice full of that firmness that Castiel knows has stricken fear into the hearts of community college students for decades. Employing his childhood strategy, Castiel resigns himself to a nod of the head and a set of tightly sealed lips.

Blessedly the conversation takes a sharp turn when they have to figure out just how to get the furniture out of the room and into the u-Haul out in the driveway. It’s an involved, physical activity that keeps Castiel’s mind off of Dean.

By the time they’ve loaded Naomi’s furniture, save for her mattress and the air mattress Castiel brought for himself, it’s completely dark outside. It’s not all that late, Castiel realizes, being that it’s solstice time, but the lack of natural light takes the wind out of Castiel’s sails at an alarming rate.

Castiel collapses on the now-inflated air mattress in the corner of the living room, his body singing out in gratitude for the rest.

“Castiel, if I order Indian food will you eat any?”

Castiel groans in response.

“Has coupling with a gym teacher turned you into a monosyllabic ape as well, or would you like to try that again?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Castiel returns back a little too forcefully.

His phone starts to ring in his pocket, pumping out an eighties power ballad that Dean so obviously programmed into his phone for no reason other than to be a pain in the ass. Then he realizes that it’s Dean calling, that he hasn’t answered any of his texts, and now he’s getting a phone call.

Shit.

He swipes to answer the call, “Hello?”

Why is he asking? He knows who it is.

“Thank fuck,” Dean breathes into the receiver. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day, what gives?”

“Sorry,” Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. “I got here and immediately started helping my mother. I apologize, I should have called.”

“Hey, no worries,” Dean returns, relief palpable even from three hundred miles away. “I figured you were okay, I just… wanted to make sure, I guess.”

Warmth buds in the pit of Castiel’s stomach, shooting up and out into the full bloom of a smile.

“How are you, Dean?” he asks.

“Bored as shit,” Dean grumbles. “Charlie said we can go to the movies tomorrow, though.”

“That should be fun,” Castiel considers.

“Not as fun as going to the movies with you,” says Dean, and Castiel’s entire body flushes.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I’m sure she’ll give you a handjob in the back row if you ask nicely.”

Dean lets out a full belly laugh at that, a laugh that sounds just like home.

Oh, dear.

“Hey, Sammy set up Skype on my computer,” Dean exclaims, as though this has just occurred to him. “Wanna Skype later?”

Castiel’s heart leaps at the prospect of seeing Dean’s face, especially when he was so sure Dean’s lack of interest in technology would prevent him from doing so for two weeks.

“I’d love to,” he returns, only then hit by another wave of yawns. “Unfortunately, I think tonight I might have to stuff myself full of curry and fall asleep as soon as possible. Tomorrow night, maybe? Though I might be too tired from moving.”

“Oh,” Dean’s reply comes out probably more crestfallen than he means. There’s nothing he wants more than to reach through the phone and pull Dean into his arms, to kiss the disappointment off his face and tell him that he loves him.

He loves him.

But the words get caught in his throat, so he has to backpedal and proceed with, “This sucks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Dean says. “I, um… I miss you, Cas.”

The steady tha-thump tha-thump of his heart kicks up a few beats, and he replies, “I miss you too, Dean.”

He notices out of the corner of his eye that his mom is listening to him, staring at him, assessing. Well, it’s nice to know that his little acorn didn’t fall too far from her mighty oak. Castiel pushes himself to his feet and steps outside to relocate to his car.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as soon as he shuts the door. “My mother was eavesdropping.”

“Oh,” Dean considers again. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is when I’m half a second away from telling you that I wish I was still in bed with you,” Castiel leans his head back against the headrest. “Or telling you that I wish I was tired because I spent all day fucking you nice and slow.”

He hears Dean lose his breath on the other end of the line.

“Would you let me fuck you if I was there now, Dean?” he asks. “You took my toy so nicely last night. I bet you’d take my cock with no problem.”

“Christ, Cas,” Dean whimpers. “You’re killin’ me.”

“Would you, Dean?” his voice drops almost an entire octave. “I think you would.”

Dean makes what sounds like an affirmative noise, but Castiel can’t tell. So, he reminds him, “Use your words.”

“Yeah, I would,” Dean’s voice shakes.

“You would what?”

Dean whines, “Let you fuck me.”

Castiel groans and closes a hand over the outline of his rapidly thickening cock.

“I won’t even make you beg,” he hums. “I know how bad you want it… what are you doing right now?”

“Jerking off, what the fuck do you think?” Dean sighs.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to do that, you naughty boy,” Castiel’s lips curl into a grin at the frustrated noise on the other side of the phone. “Come on, you didn’t think I was going to take it easy on you, did you?”

“A guy can hope,” Dean hiccups.

“Now, where would the fun be in that?” asks Castiel. “You don’t get to come until you hear all the things I’m going to do to you.”

A knock comes on the window and Castiel nearly leaps out of his skin, “Jesus _fuck_!”

His mom stands at the window, bundled up in her beige cable-knit sweater, and knocks again.

“What?” Castiel snaps, and rolls his eyes when she motions for him to roll down the window. “Mom, the car isn’t on, I can’t roll down the--”

“Oh my god,” he hears Dean laugh on the other end of the phone.

“Shut up,” Cas spits back and presses the phone to his chest so he can open the door. “Can I help you, mother?”

“Would you go pick up the food?” she asks.

Castiel sighs, “Yes, I will.”

He then goes bright red when, from the earpiece on his phone, Dean’s voice pours out, making loud, wanton, pornographic noises.

There is absolutely no way mom doesn’t know exactly what is happening.

“Do you,” his mom looks at the phone, “Would you like me to give you money?”

“No, that’s all right,” Castiel fights to keep his voice level, only to be rewarded with Dean Winchester very clearly shouting, _‘Fuck my tight virgin ass with your big fucking dick!’_

“Right,” Naomi nods. “Well, you--”

_‘You fuck me so good, baby, oh god! Fuck-fuck-fuck I’m gonna come--’_

“Knock it off, Dean,” Castiel spits a warning into the phone, before looking back up at his mom. “Where am I picking it up from?”

“Hanuman’s Bite of India,” Naomi clears her throat. “You remember where that is, right?”

Castiel nods.

“All right, then,” Naomi affirms. “Well, it’s nice to know we both have horrible taste in men. As you were.”

Castiel closes the door and waits for his mom to get back in the house before putting the phone back up to his ear.

“You son of a bitch,” he accuses, only to have Dean cackle at him in response. “You know she heard every bit of that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and you know you could’ve hung up, right?”

Castiel purses his lips. Yes he damn well could have, and frankly he does not want to dwell on the reasons why he didn’t.

“Still,” is all he ends up saying. “Well, now that the mood has been officially dampened, I should probably go pick up our dinner.”

“You don’t wanna get off?” Dean asks.

“No, I think I’d rather throw myself into the fiery pits of Mordor at the moment,” Castiel sighs and starts the engine.

“Huh. I may have to change that.”

Castiel sighs and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, trying to will his brain back into working order.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?” he says.

“... are you pissed?”

“I’m not pissed, I’m just tired,” Castiel reminds him very pointedly. “And also maybe I’m a little frustrated that my mother interrupted what was undoubtedly going to be a very nice phone call.”

“I had fun,” he can hear the grin in Dean’s voice.

“Dick.”

“I know you are but what am I?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll text you,” Dean very obviously yawns.

“Wonderful,” Castiel doesn’t mean for it to sound sarcastic, but he thinks it might.

“Hey."

Castiel thuds his head against the steering wheel, “Yes?”

He then hears Dean expel a deep breath before saying, “Get some rest.”

Castiel sighs back, “Thank you, I will.”

“You take care, baby.”

Castiel smiles.

“You too.”

**oo**

“She c-blocked you?” Gabriel hisses through his teeth. “That’s some weak shit, dude.”

“Tell me about it,” Castiel sighs, moving up one more place in line at Starbucks, yawning long and deep against the back of his hand.

“To be fair, you did take the lead on that,” says Gabriel. “Having phone sex anywhere near your parents is kinda sketchy.”

“Thank you, that’s a very keen observation,” Castiel shoots back.  

“Next customer,” calls the cashier, and Gabriel turns to Castiel.

“Go grab some napkins, I got you,” he says. “Peppermint latte?”

“Plain coffee, but thanks anyway,” Castiel shakes his head at Gabriel’s cheeky grin. He starts over toward the milk-and-sugar station, pulling his phone out to check the time. What he finds is a picture message, specifically of a very sleepy-looking Dean, still in his sleep shirt, his hair all a mess, lying back on his bed with Angus draped across his legs.

_‘starring in the sequel to 127 hours’_

Castiel checks to make sure there’s no one watching him before he swipes over to his camera and takes a picture of himself, unamused, dead tired, with his tongue sticking out.

_‘Fuck you for still getting to be in bed.’_

_‘gdamn that tongue… warn me when ur sending me the nsfw shit’_

_‘Charming.’_

Castiel knows he’s smiling like a damn idiot, so when he hears a stomach-droppingly familiar voice ask, “Castiel?” he naturally ends up looking more excited than he means to.

“Ephraim…” he blinks, suddenly stalk still where he stands. He’s thinner than Castiel remembers, with dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones protruding. There’s still handsomeness on that face, though, or at least the ghost of it.

“It’s great to see you,” he pulls Castiel into a hug that Castiel one hundred percent did not consent to. “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Castiel nods. He can’t bring himself to say the same back.

“What are you doing in town?”

“Oh, the holidays,” says Castiel. “It’s Christmas in a couple days.”

“Right, right,” Ephraim nods, eyes bugging out as though he had no idea of the present date. “I think your phone is ringing.”

Castiel realizes that his phone is indeed vibrating in his hand and he looks down.

“Who is it?” Ephraim asks, words sticking to him like feathers on tar.

“My bo--” he catches himself. “It’s Dean. He’s, um--”

“Dean, like your cousin or something?”

“I don’t have a cousin named Dean,” Castiel frowns. “Dean is my boyfriend.”

And he said it anyway.

Fantastic.

“Boyfriend,” Ephraim’s fair eyebrows go up, and just before Castiel is about to launch into a completely unnecessary explanation, Gabriel swoops in.

“Well, well, Honey Smacks, so nice to see you,” Gabriel gives Castiel an assessing look before returning to Ephraim. “What den of iniquity did you drag yourself out of so early in the morning?”

“Gabriel,” Ephraim returns, the lids of his eyes twitching despite the hardened edge to his voice. “Looks like all that sobriety went right to your jowls.”

“First of all, I do not have jowls, so you can eat a dick,” Gabriel snaps, “And second: you think seeing you is really making me question my life choices?”

Not that Gabriel’s all that sober, in the truest sense of the word. He just stopped doing heroin.

“If you don’t mind, I’m talking to Castiel,” says Ephraim.

“Uh, if you don’t mind, you’re kind of a walking, talking shitfuck,” comes Gabriel’s stellar, well-thought out retort.

It takes until now for Castiel to realize that his palms are sweating profusely. He can see his cup of coffee in Gabriel’s hand, and he would ruin it with sugar and milk if it meant getting out of this conversation.

“Castiel,” Ephraim turns back to him, sending ice into Castiel’s nerve endings. “If you’re bored, or need a little something to get you through the heartache of being separated from your boyfriend, you just give me a call.”

He punctuates this with a wink, then a sneer at Gabriel, before he flips up the hood of his sweater and exits the store.

Immediately, Castiel’s lungs deflate--not only deflate, but make his chest concave. He reaches out to steady himself on the cream-and-sugar station and reminds himself to breathe. Just… breathe.

“Hey,” he feels Gabriel’s hands on his shoulders as he steps in front of him. “Hey, hey, you’re okay Castiel. You’re okay.”

Castiel doesn’t know that he is, though. Something disconnects up in his brain, separating his consciousness from his body. He knows he’s still breathing, but he can’t quite work out why. It’s as if space-time itself has started to unravel, with Castiel at the center of it all.

“Castiel!” he knows Gabriel shouts at him over and over, but Castiel can’t hear it. All he sees when he looks at Gabriel is his pissed off seventeen-year-old brother, who shouted himself hoarse, warning Castiel how poisonous Ephraim was. It’s not even that he didn’t listen, it’s that Ephraim got him so wrapped up in being with him that he didn’t notice what was right in front of him.

For years, Castiel’s world was Ephraim. Sometimes Castiel is amazed that he was able to do well enough in school to get as far away from him as possible. Every shared free moment was spent with Ephraim, centered around him, doing what he wanted to do. And why? Because Castiel was so sure he needed it.

He needed someone who would sit with him and hold him while his parents fought.

He needed someone who would drop everything at a moment’s notice to be exactly where he needed him.

He needed someone who would let themselves believe everything that he said, who pitied him just enough that he could get anything he wanted out of them.

It wasn’t until, one day at school, he found Gabriel and Ephraim in the bathroom together. Not kissing, not fucking, not even arguing--he’s pretty sure he could have handled anything better than what actually happened.

Castiel had known about Ephraim’s drug usage. It was yet another item on the long list of things that Castiel was out to help him with.

What he hadn’t known was that, for a good long while, Ephraim had been teaching Gabriel how to chase his pain with a needle and a belt around the arm.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on we’re almost there,” he can hear Gabriel’s voice somewhere in the distance. “Hold it in, hold it in… aaaaaand, go.”

Castiel drops to his knees and throws up a great big heap of bile into a toilet, in the mens room in the back of  a Starbucks in motherfucking Modesto.

All because he saw the one person he never, ever wanted to see again.

“Let it out, kiddo,” Gabriel sits beside him and rubs broad circles over his back. For whatever reason, it’s only this that brings Castiel back into himself. He doesn’t know if it’s the pain in his knees or the burning in the back of his throat, or the tears welling up in his eyes, but something is just sensory enough to hook him in and pull him back.

“What the fuck,” Castiel coughs and sits back on his feet.

“Hey, man,” says Gabriel. “That was some fucked up bullshit, all right? What the fuck was the likelihood of running into him here? Christ, it’s no metropolis, but it’s not a fucking hamlet in the middle of nowhere. There’s no fuckin’ reason we should’ve seen him.”

“But we did,” Castiel clears out his throat.

“And now he’s gone,” Gabriel loops an arm around Castiel’s shoulder and pulls him in close. It’s becoming more and more apparent to Castiel that they are on the floor of a public restroom, but he’s still shaking and doesn’t want to leave the comfort of his brother’s side quite yet.

Only a month and a half older, maybe, and yes Castiel may give him shit when he says it, but Gabriel is his big brother.

“I said Dean was my boyfriend,” he grumbles, as though that somehow makes it worse.

“You show him a picture?” asks Gabriel. “Not only is Dean way hotter than him, he’s also way bigger than him. People like that think you’ve got muscle behind you, they leave you be.”

“It’s not funny, Gabriel,” Castiel sniffs.

Gabriel rests their heads together, “No, it’s not.”

They sit for a few minutes, until Castiel’s breathing evens out long enough for him to stand. His head feels like it’s being split in two, but there’s not much he can do about that. Gabriel does offer to drive, though, and Castiel is feeling so shitty that he lets him.

“I’ll take you to my dad’s, you can crash in the guest room,” says Gabe. “I’ll help your mom move. She likes me.”

Castiel, again, feeling so shitty that he doesn’t think he could argue even if he wanted to, lets Gabriel do just that. Luckily, Gabriel’s dad isn’t home, and they can get Castiel situated without any interrogation.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” Gabriel reassures him. “And I’ll come check on you, okay?”

Castiel nods, though he doesn’t know that he’ll be getting any sleep.

“C’mere,” Gabriel sits beside him on the bed and pulls him into a hug. “I love you, kiddo. And remember: you’re not the same person you were eighteen years ago. You’re a fuck of a lot stronger and a hell of a lot smarter, but you know what? You’ve always been the best person I’ve ever known.”

Castiel tightens his grip on Gabriel just a little bit and then lets him go. He’s not crying, but his face is all stuffed up like he could start at any minute.

Because Gabriel loves him, even though Castiel introduced Ephraim into their lives. Even though he started a chain reaction of misery in both Castiel’s life and Gabriel’s.

Gabriel still loves him anyway.

Gabriel forgave him.

Maybe that’s enough of a reason to forgive himself.

**oo**

December 24th at 11:59pm finds Castiel sitting on his mother’s couch in her new living room, in the middle of one of his yearly watches of A Christmas Story. He’s settled over the last day or so, and while not completely all right with having to be here as long as he told his mother he would be, he’s pretty sure he can hack it.

As soon as the clock hits midnight, Castiel takes a breath.

Thirty-four.

For some reason, Castiel does not like that number. It lacks the same aesthetic as thirty-three, and by no means has the comforting roundness of a number like thirty-five.

Just like that, he’s in his early mid-thirties.

How did that happen?

Castiel’s phone buzzes in his lap, not even a minute after midnight, with a text from Dean that reads _‘happy birthday <3’_

Followed soon after by what appears to be a video. He swipes through to the message and hits the little play button in the center of the thumbnail.

What hits his eyes can’t actually be what Dean sent. Castiel has to be hallucinating, because there is no way that Dean Winchester would have ever even thought to take a video of himself jerking off. He’s obviously at the very tail end of it, his cock thick and swollen, the head that deep shade of red that makes Cas’ tongue dart out to wet his lips.

And then he hears it:

_“You fuck me so good, baby, oh god! Fuck-fuck-fuck I’m gonna come--!”_

He watches, awed, as Dean’s lower body bows off his bed, and his orgasm erupts all over his hand and stomach.

Apparently, while Castiel was busy being mortified at his mother’s interruption the other day, Dean was actually jerking off.

And recording it.

And fuck, the video ends with Dean running his fingers through the sticky white mess on his soft belly.

Castiel can barely breathe, let alone be coherent.

He simply texts back, _‘SKYPE. NOW.’_

He leaps off of the couch and grabs his laptop from his bag. Most of mother’s new place--a one-bedroom apartment closer to campus, versus the two-bedroom home she’d moved into after the divorce--is still done up in boxes, but Castiel cleared a space at the dining table earlier so he could work.

He knows very well that he’s absolutely fucked if his mom wakes up, but that’s a risk he’s willing to take. His computer boots up in no time, as though it too knows the urgency of the matter at hand. The second his Skype program opens, he gets an incoming call from Dean.

Castiel answers, only barely waiting for Dean to fade into view before he accuses, “You kinky little shit.”

Dean lets out a laugh at that and pushes the hair off his forehead. He looks freshly showered, cross-legged on his bed in his comfy plaid pajama bottoms and, Castiel squints.

“Is that where my Live at Leeds shirt has been?”

Dean grins.

“You left it here.”

“Right,” Castiel nods. “In the same way that I’ve obviously left a filthy little kink monster in my wake?”

“Hey, I was just as surprised as anyone,” Dean leans back on his hands. “Who knew I had an exhibition kink?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it an exhibition kink as much as I would call it being a rotten little skank, but,” Castiel shrugs.

Dean’s eyebrows go up.

“So, you didn’t like my cinematic debut,” he concludes, facetious.

“I think you know the answer to that, Dean.”

Dean bounces his eyebrows in response, then asks, “Wanna see what else I got myself?”

Castiel finds himself unable to breathe as Dean twists his body off screen. He can see a sliver of skin just above the waistband of his pajamas, bathed in eerie blue computer light.

When he returns to frame, he holds up something to the camera, blocking him almost entirely.

“Oh, my god,” Castiel’s voice drops. In his hand, Dean holds a metallic midnight blue vibrator--not the biggest Castiel has ever seen, but definitely bigger than anything he’s used on Dean before.

“The guy at the shop said it was pretty good,” Dean pulls the toy back to him, and the camera takes a moment to readjust. Already, Castiel can see Dean getting hard in his pants.

“You mean to tell me you went out in public and bought this for yourself,” Castiel’s grin spreads wide across his face. “Something everyone knew you were going to take home and ride until you came all over yourself?”

He can see the color rise in Dean’s cheeks, and, ignoring the growing stiffness in his own pants, asks, “Did you bring it out just to parade it around, or are you actually going to show me how it works?”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, just scoots back on his bed so that Castiel can get the full view. He pulls off his pajamas, leaving his t-shirt on.

He is not wearing underwear.

“Unacceptably sexy,” Castiel comments softly, keeping an eye on the hallway, just in case his mother should walk out. Dean’s erection already stands proud between his legs, and just like that Castiel starts to salivate.

“Dean, how long have you been planning this?”

“Honestly?” Dean twiddles the toy between his fingers. “Twenty minutes before I asked Sam to set up Skype.”

“God,” Castiel reaches down and squeezes himself. On the other end, Dean is obviously awaiting instructions. Castiel can see a bottle of lube right beside Dean’s leg, but not once does he even cast a glance toward it. He just watches Castiel.

“Well?” Castiel prompts. “Do I need to tell you how to do everything?”

Dean gulps and shakes his head, then laughs.

“God, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” he confesses.

“I’ve watched you intentionally burn popcorn because you like the taste,” Castiel props his chin on his hand, watching carefully as Dean slicks up his fingers. “But sure, fingering and fucking yourself open for your boyfriend over Skype is the weirdest thing you’ve done.”

Dean keens, pressing a finger inside himself. Okay, that is a very unfortunate slip up, but Dean doesn’t stop, so Castiel just tells himself to be mindful for the rest of the call and watches.

“Why, Dean,” Castiel tuts. “It would appear that you’ve done this before, fucked yourself on your fingers.”

Dean half-groans, half-chuckles and works at himself until he can fit another finger alongside the first. Castiel just watches, unable to speak for the longest time. He’s not sure what he did or how he did it, but he managed to take the man who wouldn’t even give him the courtesy of a reach-around and turn him into a panting, moaning mess, ready to fuck himself on a vibrator while his not-boyfriend watches.  

Not the worst thing he’s done to a person, by any means.

The moment Dean feels he’s been stretched enough, he grabs his new toy and slicks it up.

“Ah-ah,” Cas stops him before he can lie down on his back. “Hands and knees, handsome. I want to see you get acquainted with your new friend.”

What result is a spectacular view of Dean’s ass, spread out so nicely that Castiel almost reaches out and grabs two big handfuls for himself, only to remember, right.

He’s not there.

“Remember to go nice and slowly,” Castiel licks his lips.

“I know,” Dean’s voice sounds further away, being that it is indeed projecting in exactly the opposite direction of the microphone.

“You’re very eager, Dean,” Castiel reminds him. “A stunning quality that I admire very much in you, make no mistake, but I want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

Dean whimpers, and Castiel can’t hold out any longer. He unbuttons his jeans and fishes his cock out of its confines, happy that Dean can’t see him. He can keep his voice stoic, that’s no problem, but he knows his face will betray him.

What ensues is something out of a pornographic pop-up ad. Instead of on oiled up stud yanking on his dick, or a large-breasted, slim-waisted eighteen-year-old fucking herself on a ten-inch dildo, Castiel’s computer screen is full up with Dean easing the blunt head of his toy inside him.

Dean follows Castiel’s instructions, goes slowly and deliberately as he works himself into a rhythm. Castiel reclines in the dining chair, trying to get as comfortable as he can as quietly as possible as he pulls his cock out and closes a hand around himself.  

“Fuck, Dean,” he sighs. “Fuck, you’re incredible.”

There’s a low hum of vibration then, and a soft whimper as Dean starts feeling good.

“Did you find your good spot?” Cas’ own breath hitches.

Another sound, lower in his throat, indicates that yes, yes he has.

“Good,” Castiel swallows. “I want you to keep working that spot until you come. Can you do that for me?”

Indeed, Dean proves that he can. He loses himself in it, crumbling under his own ministrations until both he and Castiel are close to the edge. Castiel has to fight very hard to keep his eyes on the screen, not to let them roll back in his head as Dean’s body starts to quake.

It’s not much longer he has to wait until Dean’s body buckles around his orgasm. The video goes a little wonky, just because Dean starts to move so much and the camera can’t focus. But, when Dean finally removes the toy and rolls over onto his side, Castiel can see streaks of come staining the sheets.

Dean pushes himself up just in time to see Castiel arch off the chair and erupt all over his hand and part of his sweater.

“Fuck,” Castiel breathes. That seems to be the dominant word in his vocabulary tonight. Dean looks like he’s going through one hell of a recovery as he sits all the way up. Castiel asks, “How do you feel?”

“Mm,” comes Dean’s happy hum of satisfaction.

“Sore?”

Dean shakes his head, “Might be later, but. Feelin’ pretty damn awesome right now.”

Castiel chuckles back.

“You look pretty damn awesome,” he says, and then lifts his hand to the camera. “I look like I just narrowly escaped a sperm bank with my life.”

Dean lets out a chesty laugh and allows himself to bask while Castiel cleans himself off.

“Hang on, I have to put stain remover on this before it sets.”

“Hey, I got a stain remover,” Dean demonstrates by sticking out his tongue.

It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh at that, and he remarks, “Lovely.”

“Get it?” Dean bounces his eyebrows.

“Yes, I get it, you’re very clever,” Castiel’s grin dims to a soft glow.

In fact, according to the little window on the bottom corner of his screen, Castiel is looking at Dean like the damnable love-struck idiot that he is. So, he sticks up a finger and says, “One minute.”

By the time he returns from the laundry room, this time with a flannel over his arms, Angus and Baron have joined a now fully-clothed Dean on the bed.

“Uh, Dean? I’d keep my eye on the pervert, if I were you.”

Dean turns to see that Baron has abandoned the excitement of seeing his dad again for the siren call of the mess Dean left on his sheets.

“Aw, man!” Dean grabs him and pulls him onto his lap, all while Castiel chuckles, watching through his fingers. It’s then that Baron looks at the computer, and starts wagging his tail.

“Hello, Baron,” Castiel waves. Baron starts to make all sorts of happy beagle sounds, and ends up getting so excited that he flops out of Dean’s arms and off the bed.

“Shit!” Dean laughs. “You okay, bud?”

Baron does not return into Cas’ line of sight.

“He’s been shamed,” Dean shakes his head. “Too proud.”

“Yes, I’ve always thought that about him.”

A long moment stretches, just the two of them looking at each other, each unwittingly with stars in his eyes.

“I miss you,” Dean looks down at Angus, scratching him behind the ears.

Castiel’s face lights up, though he catches himself halfway when he says, “I l... I’ll be back on the fifth.”

_Now is not the time, Castiel._

“Still a week and a half,” Dean still won’t look up. “Sucks.”

“I know, but it will be over soon,” Castiel stifles a yawn. “We can marathon fuck our way into the new year, good and proper.”

Dean hums, “Yeah, well… All I can say is next time that pain in my ass better be you.”

He finally looks up to gauge a reaction, which Castiel knows he gives because he nearly swallows his tongue at the mere thought.

“I--yes, we’ll have to discuss this further.”

“Yes, I imagine we will, won’t we,” Dean teases back, and then notices. “Dude, are you wearing one of my fucking shirts?”

Castiel shrugs, hugging the flannel tighter around himself, and mimics, “You left it at my apartment.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

**oo**

Although it’s another week and a half in this crummy corner of the world, another week and a half away from Dean, it ends up passing rather quickly. Along with all the post-holiday satiation, New Year’s celebrations always bring a cavalcade of antics to the attention of the local news. People getting into accidents, kids blowing their thumbs off with fireworks… This year someone was stupid enough to throw a rave in their own house. What’s worse, was that everyone in the neighborhood was stupid enough to overlook the fact that there was a party going on for twenty-three hours before they felt it necessary to have law enforcement intervene.

All that aside, Castiel helps his mom get settled into her apartment. He makes sure that everything is in working order, stays on top of the landlord until he schedules someone to come take a look at the leak in her shower and someone to cover up the exposed electrical outlets.

“God, did they pay _you_ to move in here?” Castiel asks, finally taking matters into his own hands as he examines the broken handle on the toilet. “I’m actually reticent about leaving now.”

“Castiel James, you know I love you very much,” says Naomi. “If you don’t leave I will tie you up in the trunk of my car and drive you back home myself.”

Castiel scowls, but doesn’t say anything.

He does introduce him to his mother’s neighbor, though, and asks that they keep an eye on her. Not that Castiel would ever admit this, but for as non-maternal as she was and is, he does sort of love his mother enough to want her to be safe and looked out for.

And no, he will not knock it off when it comes to worrying about her, thank you. She can gripe and groan all she wants, and even though Castiel knows she’s tough and can hold her own, he can’t help wanting to protect her.

Though he’s gotten coffee with Gabriel just about every morning of their whole stay, it’s a relief when Castiel picks him up on the morning of their drive back home.

Gabriel is decidedly less excited to see him, his sunglasses drawn low over his eyes, despite the fact that the sun is not up yet.

“Why,” is all he says.

“What?”

“Why would you drag me out of bed this early?” Gabriel lowers his sunglasses.

“Because you can sleep the entire ride home,” Castiel points out. Gabriel concedes, pushes his sunglasses back up his nose.

Castiel wants to text Dean that he’s on his way back, that he’ll be back in town later that morning and that he fully intends on making good on his promise of fucking him into the new year, despite the fact that they’re already five days deep.

They stop at a gas station to fill up on both car and human fuel. Expectedly, Gabriel grabs a sleeve of powdered donuts and a cheap, watery coffee. Castiel opts for pretty much the same, though his are the chocolate covered donuts that gunk up the roof of his mouth.

He pulls a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet and hands it to the cashier, “All this and the rest on pump three please.”

Gabriel smacks him on the arm, then, and he looks over. His sunglasses now on top of his head, Gabriel points to the crappy television up in the corner of the ceiling.

The title along the bottom reads, _New Years Rave Gone Awry_.

There’s a picture, a mugshot, of Ephraim Silverman up on the screen, looking as pale and haunted as ever.

The captions fly by almost too fast for Castiel to take in.

_\--was found unconscious at the party, along with several other young men and women, but one of three that were determined to be in critical condition. According to the coroner’s office, Mr. Silverman died due to drug-induced natural causes. He was thirty-four._

 

 


	13. Contemplating My Point of View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Depressive thoughts, mentions of suicidal thoughts, panic attacks
> 
> Also, there are multiple swaps between character points of view (indicated by horizontal breaks).

The second Dean wakes, he checks his phone. Castiel texted three hours ago to say he was on his way home, and damn if that doesn’t just make his heart speed up. Two more hours. Two more agonizing hours before he could hop in his car and get to Cas, before he could burrow into his blankets with him and hold him close.

Skype sex isn’t enough, either.

It had been strange at first, but the less he thought about it the more he found himself able to enjoy it. It still makes him a little uncomfortable, but only if he reminds himself to be so. In all honesty, he kind of likes putting on a show for Cas.

But now he was going to be here, in the flesh, and Dean can kiss and hold and grope and nuzzle every last part of him. Cas will let him, too. Cas has no problem with letting Dean snuggle the everloving crap out of him.

He nearly leaps out of bed, whistling like a fucking lunatic as he gets breakfast ready for his boys. He even makes breakfast for himself and brews a pot of the fancy coffee they keep for only the most special of occasions.

Dean is happy, and right now that’s special enough an occasion.

He tidies, he takes Angus and Baron on a longer walk than usual; he makes breakfast for Jess and scours the sink. Anything that can make the next handful of hours pass by a little faster, Dean is willing to do.

“Aren’t we a little ball of energy this morning,” Jess comments, smiling as Dean lays out an egg white omelet in front of her. “Cas is coming back, right?”

Dean should probably be embarrassed that he’s being so obvious, but smiles instead.

“Yeah, I’m kinda relieved,” he admits, grabbing his coffee and sitting across from Jess. “Two weeks is way too long.”  

He looks up just in time to see a smile on Jess’ face, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t give me that face,” he says. “I’m not allowed to miss someone I’ve been fucking regularly for the last four months?”

“No,” Jess shakes her head. “I just think it’s cute that you’re excited. I’m glad Cas makes you excited.”

There’s that word again: glad.

“What’s that mean?” he asks. “Not to be a dick, I just wanna know, ‘cause Sam says it too and it’s starting to bug me.”

“What, that we’re glad for you?” she raises her eyebrows. “It means just that, Dean. No hidden message, no subtext. Sam loves you, I love you, and when you love someone, you want them to be happy. You seem to be a lot happier with Cas.”

There isn’t much Dean can think to say to that, so he just brings his coffee to his lips and tries not to dwell on it.

Dean jumps the second his phone buzzes with a text from Cas, one that simply reads, _‘Home’_.

Jess startles as Dean springs to his feet and dashes back to his room. He sends a hasty text back, _‘leaving now you beautiful bastard’_. Cas never sends a response, but that’s okay. Soon Dean will be at his door and have his arms full of Cas.

Dean doesn’t even bother to tie his boots before he’s heading for the front door. Jess asks, “Are you--”

“Cas is back, tell Sam I’ll be home later,” Dean interrupts.

He does manage to keep himself under control in the car, going the speed limit, being extra vigilant in his lookout for cops. As much as he wants to get to Cas, he really doesn’t want to explain to an officer of the law that he’s doing ninety because he hasn’t seen his friend with benefits in way too long.

As soon as he’s at Cas’ building, he punches in the code on the front door and takes the stairs all the way up to his place. There’s too much energy humming through him to stay still in an elevator for the thirty seconds it would take to get to Cas’ floor.

He can’t stop shaking as he knocks, his heart won’t stop pounding as he hears the door unlock and sees the door swing open.

Dean barely even lets his brain register that, yes, this is Cas, before he throttles him in a hug. He feels a little stiff, a little tired, but that’s definitely Cas’ heat soaking into him, the smell of him filling his nose. And after a few moments, those are definitely Cas’ hands clutching big fistfuls of his jacket.

“God, I missed you, Cas,” he whispers, even though he knows he doesn’t really have to say it. He bitched about it the entire time he was gone, for chrissakes. Dean pulls back and cups Cas’ face in his hands. His eyes are puffy red, tired, probably from waking up before dawn to drive back here. Dean strokes his thumbs over his cheeks and brings him into a kiss.

It’s scratching every itch at once, satisfying every unfulfilled craving he’s ever had. Dean had no idea that one kiss from one person could manage to do so much.

Cas grabs his wrists, but neither pulls away nor deepens the kiss. Even when they stop, Castiel holds him there, just as close, warm breath drying the saliva on Dean’s lips.

“Heya, handsome,” Dean grins.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel sniffs, though doesn’t look as enthused as Dean would have hoped. He chalks it up to a long car ride and little sleep. God knows he’s never himself after a long drive. So, Dean pulls him closer and starts pressing kisses all over his face.

Christ, he’s bordering on disgustingly affectionate, now.

“I bet you need one hell of a nap, huh?” Dean offers.

Castiel shrugs, takes a deep breath only to have it turn into a yawn.

“I’m fine,” he reassures, his eyes slipping shut where he stands. “Absolutely. How are you, Dean?”

“Better than I’ve been all break, now,” Dean gins. Ugh, Jesus, did he just say that? Gross.

He drags his knuckles lightly over the scruff on Cas’ jaw, only to frown when Cas pulls away and walks over to the kitchen.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Cas asks.

He won’t look at Dean.

As high as he was flying this morning, Dean can feel himself teetering.

“I’m good,” Dean takes a cautious step forward. Why won’t Cas look at him?

… because he’s been looking at him for the last two weeks, watching him jerk off to a webcam, hearing every single one of those pathetic sounds Dean knows he made.

He’d known it was a stupid idea, but he hadn’t cared, not at the time. He was so desperate that he would have done anything Cas asked, and that… yeah, that’s not really how a grown man is supposed to act.

He’d known it was stupid, but he still let himself do it, because it was Cas, and Cas--

Cas was safe--is safe. At least, that’s what Dean thought.

His stomach twists.

No wonder Cas is acting so fucking weird. Dean’s found that everyone has their limit when it comes to him, and Cas must have hit his. _‘It took him long enough,’_ Dean can’t help the bitter thought. Sure, Cas has a higher tolerance than most, but it figures.

It just…

Fucking figures.

“Y’know, I think I’m gonna go,” he says.

For the first time since Dean arrived, Cas looks at him.

“What?”

“Look, I know I’m a freak, okay?” Dean snaps. “I know I got a lot of baggage, but I thought--” he cuts himself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Dean, what the hell are you talking about?” Cas asks, his voice taking on a tone he doesn’t think he’s ever heard. Whatever, if he looks at him, Dean knows he’s going to just… kick a hole in the wall or some shit.

He’s so fucking stupid.

“I’m just gonna go, all right?” Dean fixes his eye on one of the many rooster-themed needlework pieces bedecking the walls. “This was fucking stupid.”

“Dean, wait!” Castiel’s voice comes out again in a foreign tone, but Dean can’t look back as he opens the door. “Please, don’t--”

He slams the front door shut and buries his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. The last couple weeks flood his memory. He can’t fucking believe himself. He knows better. He fucking knows better than to get involved with people. On the very few occasions he’s allowed himself this, he’s always ended up with a handful of sand in his face. It’s yet another prime example of Dean Winchester being too fucked up to function.

Why, then? Why did the universe keep putting all these wonderful people in front of him, only to have them taken away?

For the first time in months, he hears John Winchester’s voice:

_Because you got no right._

And he was right. Dean has no right to be with anyone, especially when he treats his loved ones like shit as often as he does. He’s a selfish, sick little fuck. Too selfish to look after mom when she needed it, too sick to look after Sam, too fucked to even think a relationship was even a possibility.

Dean’s stomach churns at the word _relationship_.

Yeah, okay, so he kind of hadn’t been correcting Cas when he slipped up and said shit like ‘boyfriend’, but it was obviously just playing to Dean’s pathetic needs, and Dean had been a total idiot to think that Castiel could be even a little serious about that.

_Wouldn’t you know it: you can’t keep a man around either. Even unwed teenage trailer trash mothers can manage to do that._

Dean doesn’t even bother to cry when he gets in the car. The pain destroying his gut disappears as he slams the door, and the adrenaline pumping through him, making his heart race, subsides.

Rather than allowing himself to feel like he’s just been dragged over five miles of bad road, Dean steels himself and starts the car, allowing nothingness to take over.

Better to be numb than left raw and ready to rot.

* * *

Of course Dean doesn’t answer his phone.

 _Hi, this is Dean. Don’t leave me a voicemail ‘cause I promise you I won’t check it. Text if you need_.

A loud beep follows.

“I hope you’ve made peace with your god, you miserable sack of shit,” Gabriel spits into the receiver. “One thing, that’s all I asked, and what did you do? You fucked yourself, that’s right. You’re fucking done, Winchester. That’s it. Done.”

Gabriel hangs up his phone and shoves it into his pocket, not even bothering to knock on Cas’ door. A text from his bereaved brother reading _‘not okay’_ doesn’t permit time to knock; Gabriel just uses his key.

He knew he should’ve called bullshit when Cas said he’d be fine alone. And, fuck him, he thought he could trust Dean Winchester with Castiel’s emotional well-being. He’d been so fucking sure, and now this.

Cas is on his bed, blinds all drawn shut, not a lick of light in the space around him. He’s curled on his side, trying to make himself as small as possible. Even from the doorway, Gabriel can see him shake.

“Hey, kid,” Gabriel shuts the door softly. He toes off his shoes and shucks the jacket, and tiptoes over to the bed. “I’m here to answer your distress call.”

Cas doesn’t move.

“Cassie?”

That gets him a grunt.

Thank god.

He climbs over Castiel, not unlike he used to when they were little, when Cas would wake up quaking from a nightmare and Gabriel would lie with him until he stopped crying.

Castiel isn’t crying now. He didn’t even cry in the car. He had to have been upset, though, since he allowed Gabriel to drive almost the entire way. Cas has got a mean pokerface, but stoic and thoughtful is not the same thing as hollow and haunted.

And that’s exactly what Castiel is, haunted by the ghost of a man he hadn’t even known was dead.

Gabriel settles, facing Cas. His eyes are open, though his face is still expressionless.

“Hey, little brother,” Gabriel keeps his hands to himself.

“I… I don’t think I can do anything right,” Castiel finally says his first words to Gabriel since five o’clock this morning, and they confuse more than clarify.

“What are you talking about?” Gabriel asks. “You do everything right, and even if you don’t it’s never for a lack of trying.”

“Ephraim,” is all Castiel manages to say for a few moments. “He didn’t deserve that, Gabriel.”

Oh, boy.

“Cas, I know you loved him,” Gabriel says. “I know that. And I’m not saying he deserved what happened,” _even though he_ totally _did,_ “But, kid… he made his own choices, and that’s where they led him. You couldn’t have helped him, all right? He didn’t want to be helped.”

“But, I--”

“No ‘but’s about it, Cas,” Gabriel lays a ginger hand on Castiel’s bicep. “Please trust me when I say that you could _not_ have helped him, even if you’d decided to go fuck around with him while we were there. Not only would it not have helped him, but it wouldn’t have helped you, either. And right now, you’re the only one I care about.”

“And Dean--”

“Don’t worry about him right now,” Gabriel insists with every ounce of control he has in his body. Except then Cas looks up at him, red-rimmed eyes and a bright red nose just adding another layer of pitiful.

“He was here,” Castiel sniffs. “And he hugged me and kissed me and--and I let him think I didn’t want him here.”

Gabriel frowns, and Castiel continues, “I wasn’t going to tell him, anyway. He missed me, and I wanted to be here for him.”

“Cas, it’s not always your j to be that person,” Gabriel reminds him. “And especially not when your ex-boyfriend and guy-that-kind-of-uber-boned-us-both _dies_. He was a stone cold schmuck, but… y’gotta admit, that’s pretty heavy.”

“He was trying to be kind,” Cas mops up a stream of tears on his sleeve.

Gabriel is willing to bet that this is also true. But how do you just storm out on someone who’s so obviously hurting?

“He’s a good person,” Castiel points out, and Gabriel raises an eyebrow.

“Hey, I thought we couldn’t have twin telepathy,” he gives Cas a smile. Gabriel is pretty sure he receives a genuine smile in return.

That’s the thing about Cas, though--in spite of everything he’s been through, he still believes there’s good in people. Not for being naive either. Castiel just genuinely believes the best in everyone, and anyone who doesn’t want to give Castiel their best in return deserves impalement on a rusty railroad spike.

And even when he’s gotten over someone, even someone who’d left nothing but shrapnel lodged in his heart, Castiel’s love never really dies out. Not completely.

Gabriel supposes it just comes with the territory of being someone like Cas, though. Just like it comes with moments like these.

“You’re allowed to hurt too, kid,” says Gabriel. “And you deserve someone who looks out for you just as hard as you look out for them.”

Castiel shuts his eyes, fighting off a fresh round of tears. Shit.

“Hey, Cassie,” Gabriel lays a hand on his cheek. “Say the word. Whatever you need that I can give you, it’s yours.”

“Stay the night?” Castiel asks. “I shouldn’t be alone.”

Those words shake Gabriel to his core, but he stuffs it down deep and nods, “Of course, brobot.”

On the bedside table, Gabriel sees Cas’ phone light up. On the screen comes a picture of Dean, asleep under his shetland pony of a dog.

_Incoming call… Dean Winchester_

Gabriel swipes his thumb across the screen.

 _Decline_.

* * *

Despite not being upset, Dean slams the front door anyway. Immediately, Angus and Baron are on their feet, tails wagging, both at high alert.

When the sight of his boys doesn’t fill him with the usual affection, Dean knows there’s something seriously fucking wrong with him. But hey, no news there. He doesn’t bother nodding hello to Sam, nor does he even make a grab for a beer--Dean just storms right back to his room and shuts the door behind him.

He gets in bed and pulls his blankets over his head, because somewhere between Westwood and here, he became sixteen again. He became that kid who couldn’t watch a James Dean movie without popping a stiffy, who started fights with football players just so he could know what it was like to be pinned down by another boy, the kid who socked Aaron Bass for kissing him under the bleachers.

And now he's the guy who jerks off on a webcam for a the sexiest human on the planet, who could easily have anyone he wanted.

Who stuck with Dean obviously out of pity.

He wasn’t supposed to care about this guy. He wasn’t even supposed to see him again after that one night in the bathroom in the back of a seedy LA bar. And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to light up every time he walked in the room.

The ache in his chest increases tenfold.

For five blissful minutes, Sam leaves him to stew in his own juices. Apparently, though, that’s too long for the little fuck and he soon comes knocking on Dean’s door.

“Hey, can I come in?”

When Dean doesn’t answer, Sam enters anyway. He only gets one look at Dean hiding under his blankets before he asks, “What the hell happened?”

Where Dean means to tell Sam to fuck off, the words, “I’m queer” tumble out of his mouth.

Shit, he had not meant to say that, but hey, why not! Let’s just get everything out in the open before he walks in front of a freight train.

Sam tries to pull the blankets off of him, but Dean holds tight.

“Knock it off, dickweed!”

“Dean,” Sam says.

“Fuck you, just put me out of my goddamned misery, would you?” Dean shouts. “Will one fucking adept human being please finish what I fucking started? Old Yeller me.”

He regrets saying it before he’s even finished, and understandably, Sam successfully yanks the blankets away from his face this time. A look of hardened rage on his face, he asks, “Did you do anything stupid?”

“Go away!” Dean makes a shove for him, but misses.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam demands now. Fuck, now Sam is mad at him too. Sam is the nicest person he knows; how much of a piece of shit does someone have to be to piss off Sammy?

Before Dean can help it, everything from this morning until now wells up and bursts out of him. Hysterical, body-wracking sobs tear out of his chest. Even though there are no tears, he turns over, because his baby brother can’t see him like this.

Not again.

He hides his face under his pillow, trying to pull himself together and failing miserably. He curls in on himself, wishing now more than ever that he could just sink into his mattress and let the world forget he was ever here. He would rather just not have existed than be Sam’s object of worry, or Castiel’s object of ridicule.

“Dean?” Sam asks softly. “I don’t want to leave you alone like this. Is it okay if I let one of the dogs in?”

Dean hiccups and nods.

“Which one?”

Another hiccup, “Angus.”

Sam’s weight shifts off of his bed. He can hear Sam telling Baron to stick back with him, and the grunt when Sam just ends up hefting him into his arms.

Bed springs creak under Angus’ weight, and he nearly steps on Dean’s face as he crawls over and settles down beside him. The door clicks shut, softly this time, and Dean lifts the pillow from his head. Angus sits like the world’s happiest sphinx, panting and slobbering as he keeps a watchful eye out for any more bad thoughts that might be coming to attack.

When he sees Dean, though, he puts his face level with Dean’s and allows him to huddle up against him. He curls his fingers into Angus’ coat, buries his nose in the familiar smell of _dog_. Already he can feel his breathing start to even out, can feel that heaviness in his head that comes from being so full up of emotions all at once.

When he’s calmed down sufficiently, Angus nuzzles him, and gives drags his tongue in a big swipe over Dean’s cheek.

Angus is the living, breathing, slobbering adult version of a teddy bear. The nasty voice in his head fades, though the ache in his chest remains. So, Angus lets Dean stroke his fur until Sam comes back in to check on him.

“Hey,” Sam says softly. Dean rolls over, though his body is flat out exhausted.

“Hey,” he returns. With him, Sam carries a glass of water and a handful of what are probably baby aspirin.

“I thought you might need something to drink,” Sam supplies and sets the glass and the pills on Dean’s nightstand, and then in a staggering display of awkwardness, stands and waits on Dean to speak.

Not feeling up for a fight, Dean rubs at his eyes and groans, “ _What_?”

“C’mon, man,” Sam shifts. “You know I can’t just leave without knowing what happened.”

“You could,” Dean considers. “But you won’t.”

“Ha-ha,” Sam folds his arms over his chest, then asks very plainly, “Did you hurt yourself?”

Dean heaves a sigh that would surely make teenaged students proud.

“No.”

“Had you planned on it?”

Another sigh, “I don’t know. After a while it’s kind of hard to keep track of which suicidal thoughts are wishful thinking or not.”

“Dean, could you not joke about this?” Sam asks, voice tense, higher. He sounds like a kid again.

Goddamn it.

“Sorry.”

Sam takes this as an invitation to sit beside him on the bed, Dean now sandwiched between two of the world’s largest creatures. Sam runs his fingers through his long hair and asks, “What the hell happened?”

Dean doesn’t know when he became the kind of person who just blurts out these kinds of things, but his subconscious seems to think it’s an appropriate time to repeat, “I’m queer.”

Sam’s smile isn’t condescending; if anything, it’s a look of relief.

And then, being the little brother that he is, says, “Well, I could’ve told you that, jerk.”

Dean flips him off.

Although, now that he’s said that, it seems that whatever was keeping his chest bound splits and he sits up.

Holy fuck, he can _breathe_.

He looks at Sam, then says it again,

“I’m queer.”

Sam’s smile grows and he nods.

“Bisexual?” Dean asks then. He knows Gabriel is the one that’s all-inclusive, but for whatever reason it’s not sticking right on him. He decides without Sam’s input, “Bisexual.”

And because Sam is Sam, he comes forward and pulls Dean into a bone-crushing hug.

The euphoria is short-lived, however, when he remembers just what started this whole fucking thing. He pulls away from Sam and buries his face in his hands.

“Uh-oh… is there more?”

Word vomit is an understatement. This is morning after the first night of spring break status. Dean spills everything, and without even meaning to. He realizes just how little Sam knows about the situation and fills him in (“That’s a little more graphic than I need, Dean.” “Right, sorry.”). He keeps talking and talking until he feels like his jaw might fall off, and leads Sam right to here, this very moment.

By the time Dean is done, Sam’s eyes are the size of dinner plates. He can see his brother sifting through the information, analyzing and synthesizing, his lawyer brain working this story from every possible angle.

“Okay,” Sam finally says, adjusting to fold both of his legs up on the bed. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and ask you a follow-up.”

“Yeah, shoot.”

“Did you ever consider the possibility that whatever was bothering him may not have been about you?”

…

“Holy fuck,” Dean clutches his hair. “Oh, holy fuck I’m such an asshole.”

“Dean, you’ve been in, what, one real relationship?” Sam points out, trying to excuse it.

“We’re not in a relationship,” Dean hears himself reply, but it doesn’t feel like those were the words that wanted to come out. Whatever, he can think about it later.

There’s no time to dick around because this… Dean can fix this.

He grabs his phone and immediately dials Castiel’s number. Pride be damned, and you know what? That little voice in his head can go fuck itself too.

Cas’ contact picture, a quick _selfie_ Cas had snapped of them at a football game and sent to Dean, ties Dean’s stomach up in knots. With this ceaseless emotional tumult, it’ll be a wonder if Dean’s gut doesn’t just up and give out before the day is over.

_Hello, you have reached Castiel Novak. Please leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you. ... Okay, now how do I stop recor--_

A beep rings in Dean’s ear, but he doesn’t leave a message. Instead he hops to his feet and changes into a shirt that’s a little less soaked with panic sweats.

“I gotta go talk to him,” he explains at Sam’s questioning gaze.

“Good idea.”

“I’ll be back… I don’t know when, but,” Dean shakes his head. He’s wasting too much time.

For the second time today, Dean makes the drive into Westwood. Speed limit be damned this time around; if he gets pulled over he’ll just take the ticket and shut up about it. He just needs to get back to Cas, needs to let him know.

Dean spends the bulk of his drive trying to work out just what he wants Cas to know, but he doesn’t present itself before he’s back in front of Cas’ apartment door, knocking. His heart races like it knows someone put down big money on it, and it only gets worse when he hears shuffling by the door.

“Oh, _hell_ to the no,” comes Gabriel’s irate response.

Of course Gabriel is here.

Damn it.

“Gabe, let me in,” he says. It’s not nearly as forceful as he wants it to be, but it’ll have to do.

“Are you shitting me?” Gabriel shouts back. “Get lost, anal rot!”

“Gabriel, for the love of god,” Dean hears Cas sigh thickly on the other side. “I will handle this.”

The door unlocks and opens, revealing Cas and ferocious Gabriel on the other side.  Cas looks like he’s been crying even more after this morning. Fuck, how could Dean not have seen how upset he so clearly is? Is he really that self-centered?

He tells the voice in his head not to answer that.

They stare at one another, each with something to say and neither with any idea of how to say it.

So, Dean just decides to wing it.

“Cas... did something happen while you were home?”

Without saying a word, Cas comes forward and wraps his arms tightly around Dean. Some deeply ingrained instinct lights up in his brain, his intrinsic need to protect now taking over, silencing that little voice that tells him he’s no good.

Because he is good, goddamn it. Even if he’s only good at one thing, it’s this thing right here. And this thing? Yeah, it’s something that matters. So, Dean pulls Cas as close as he can and presses a kiss to his temple.

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs only for Cas to hear. “You’re okay.”

Cas’ grip on him tightens, so much so that Dean’s eyes pop open. Behind Cas, Gabriel stands with his arms folded over his chest, still poised to defend, but a lot less openly hostile.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean buries his nose in Cas’ hair. “I’m sorry, I’m an insensitive jackass.”

“I’m sorry too,” Cas’ breath hitches, only to have Dean pull back and look him over.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, stroking his fingers over the messy brown tendrils at the base of his skull. “Cas, I was a total dick to you, all right? You don’t got a single thing in the world to be sorry about right now.”

Cas leans forward, settling his weight against Dean and white-knuckling two big handfuls of his t-shirt, as though he’s worried that Dean might bolt again.

Over Cas’ shoulder, Dean sees Gabriel, stance no longer homicidal, eyes no longer looking as though they’re out for blood. It should be awkward, or at least uncomfortable enough that Dean has to pull away and wait until he and Cas are alone.

But Dean couldn’t let go of Cas right now, even if he tried.

“Will you stay with me?” Cas asks.

“Yeah, baby,” Dean nods and kisses him on the temple. “Yeah, you got me as long as you need me. No questions asked.”

That seems to be the last straw for Gabriel.

“Okay, then,” he smacks his palms together, his usual air of mirth back around him. “I can see my services are no longer required. Dean-o, you haven’t checked your voicemail recently, have you?”

“No,” Dean frowns, shifting so Cas can hold him closer.

“Good,” Gabriel claps Dean on the shoulder. “Do us both a favor and maybe just don’t. Consider yourself on probation.”

With an armful of Cas, there isn’t much Dean can do but raise his eyebrows and agree, “Okay?”

The amount of ‘don’t fuck with me’ rolling off of Gabriel is palpable, and so Dean nods and says again, “Okay.”

“Cassie, are you good if I leave?” Gabriel asks then.

Castiel nods.

So Gabriel leaves. All alone in Cas’ studio apartment, they stand fused to one another, Dean thinking and repeating every single soothing thing he can remember, and Cas letting himself be held.

When they finally pull apart, it’s so Cas can use the bathroom. Dean takes the moment of free time to assess the contents of Cas’ fridge. Unsurprisingly, it’s a few take out containers, some microwaveable meals, and a handful of beers.

The freezer isn’t much better, either: a bottle of gin, a mostly-empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s, and half a sleeve of Thin Mints.

Christ, Dean knew his eating habits were bad, but judging by this Cas shouldn’t even be able to stand upright.

He’s interrupted by the sound of Cas flopping down onto his bed. Dean pads over to him and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

He lays a hand on Cas’ hip and asks, “What happened?”

Castiel doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even make a sound. So, Dean tries again, using an old standby that he’s never minded hearing, “Whatever you need from me, it’s yours.”

“You,” is all Cas says, and Dean smiles.

“You’ve had that for a long time, buddy,” he hums, soothing his hand over Cas’ bicep, down his arm. “You want me to lie down with you?”

No words, just a nod.

Dean obliges.

* * *

Castiel wakes to a cold bed. He shoots up, panic zipping through him. He's alone. Gabriel left and Dean must have too, as soon as Castiel fell asleep.

Only... Castiel smells food. Not his food, either. Something delicious.

He rolls out of bed, every muscle shrieking in protest, begging him to get back into bed where it’s nice and safe, but naturally he doesn’t listen. There’s someone cooking in his kitchen, someone who can’t hum on key to save his life.

Dean, barefoot and bobbing his head, stirs up something in a pot Castiel doesn’t even remember owning.

“What are you doing?”

Dean jumps, still not used to Castiel’s quiet nature. For a second he looks like he’s been caught red-handed, and then relaxes.

“It’s tomato rice soup,” Dean clears his throat. “Uh, don’t judge it or anything. I wanted to get all the stuff to make it from scratch, ‘cause that’s how my mom taught me how to do it and I think it tastes way better, but I didn’t want to take too long at the store, ‘cause I didn’t want you to wake up. So, I kinda had to improvise. It’s… it’s really good with a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Too stunned to speak, Castiel just stares at Dean.

“And, I,” Dean holds up a finger and steps back to open up the fridge. “I stocked you up a little bit. Like I said, nothing much, since I wanted to get back before you woke up, but.”

Where Dean sees potential, sees an end product, all Castiel sees is ingredients and no way of putting them together.

“I know you don’t cook,” Dean says then, “But I do, and… I guess, if you wanted me to stick around, I could cook for you, y’know? Make sure you’re eating. Sam may be a hippie douche, but he’s right: eating good stuff makes your body feel a lot better.”

Castiel’s heart races, brows pinching together, which only makes Dean shift.

“I mean, don’t feel obligated to eat it or anything, I just--”

Castiel swallows the rest of Dean’s thought when he mashes their lips together. It’s a little too hard and a lot too clumsy, but neither pulls away. In this moment it’s not about his shortcomings; it’s not about the boy who fucked him up, who couldn’t be saved.

In this moment it’s about tomato rice soup and the man who came back to him.

He pulls back and asks, “Why did you leave earlier?”

“Man, forget about me for like two seconds,” Dean’s broad hands smooth over his chest. “This is the most upset I’ve ever seen you. What the hell happened?”

Castiel swallows. There’s just so much, and where the hell is he supposed to start?

Unsure of what he could possibly say or how he could even say it, Castiel shakes his head.

“I can’t,” is all he gets out. “Not right now.”

“Okay,” Dean nods and pulls him back into his arms. “That’s more than okay. Like I said, anything you need, it’s yours.”

Castiel looks at him, fixed on those pretty green eyes, and says, “I think I need some tomato rice soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Dean grins and affirms, “I can do that.”

 


	14. I Shake All Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO, this chapter contains bottom!Dean toward the very end. If that's not your thing, feel free to skip.

Cas’ ex-boyfriend bit the dust. It was unexpected and very upsetting, and apparently that was all Dean needed to know. Any other information Dean tries to get out of Cas is sealed up tight.

“Hey, I didn’t like talking about my mom either--”

“I appreciate it, Dean, but it’s not the same thing.”

Dean isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to say or do. He doesn’t have a wealth of experience with this kind of thing, and every time he tries to say something comforting, it just comes out wrong and ends up aggravating Cas even further.

So, they compromise: Dean won’t push Cas to talk, but he also won’t leave Cas on his own. So, for the last week of their break, Castiel stays with Dean, Sam and Jess. This way, Dean can make sure he’s sleeping and eating, without leaving his boys on their own.

Baron, as expected, nearly leaps into Castiel’s arms when he first sees him, tail wagging and happy beagle noises filling the apartment, and he’s hardly left Castiel’s side since. It warms Dean’s heart, in a way, knowing that the boys love Cas so much.

He doesn’t know that he’d be able to be with someone that they didn’t like. Unconventional though it may be, Dean’s little pack is as much his family as Sam or Jess. They’ve stuck by him through the worst, just as fastidious and loyal as they are during the good times.

Though, Dean supposes, Castiel has gotten him through some pretty bad shit too. Maybe that’s why the boys like him so much; they think he’s one of them.

On the last day before they go back to work, Dean comes up behind Cas and presses a kiss to the top of his head. He’s been drawing out lesson plans on the dining table for the better part of the day, and though he ate breakfast, he hasn’t eaten recently. So, Dean sets a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the table in front of him and then snakes his arms around his neck, holding him close.

“Your obsession with my feeding leads me to believe you’re fixing to fatten me up and eat me,” says Cas, not looking up from his work.

“You got me,” Dean hums, then kisses his cheek. “Gonna make big ol’ steaks out of you. Butcher you up, make some hams, maybe cure up your belly and make some bacon.”

This gets the chuckle Dean is looking for, and he feels nothing short of victorious when Castiel sets his work down and picks up his sandwich. Dean immediately eases as he sees the hunger take over, content in knowing that he’s helped in at least one way.

He may not be so great with feelings, but as far as making sure your body is fed and rested and ready, Dean is unmatched. He had to keep Sam alive most of the time after mom got sick, and definitely after she died. And for four whole years, when it was just him and dad, Dean had to take care of him as best as he could too.

_Look how that turned out._

Dean shakes that from his head. Now isn’t the time.

“So,” he says from where he wipes down the kitchen counter. “If you want, I can come stay the night with you tonight. Since it’s closer to work and everything.”

Halfway through his sandwich, Castiel ponders.

“I think I should be able to fare one night on my own,” he concludes, and Dean’s heart plummets all the way down into his gut. It’s not cruel, it’s not even mean, it’s just… rejection.

And the selfish part of him that lurks far too close to the surface wants to throw in the towel, wants him to grab Cas by the shoulders and shake him and beg him to reconsider. He just needs Cas to let him be there.

But that’s not what Cas wants or needs, apparently, and, Dean has to keep reminding himself, this is not about him.

… it’s just that it’s a little frustrating to know that he isn’t any better at this now than he was six, ten, twenty years ago. Sure, Sam made it out fine, but that’s because Sam is Sam and Sam would be fine no matter what. You could drop him in the middle of rural China, three weeks later he’d be back on your doorstep, fluent in Mandarin and just as upbeat as ever.

Mom and dad needed him more than Sam ever did, just like Cas needs him now. He can’t fuck this up too, okay? He just can’t.

Dean looks back at Cas, only to find that Cas is watching him very closely.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks.

What the fuck, _why is Cas asking if he’s okay_? Cas is the one who just lost someone, even if they were an ex-boyfriend (the thought of which makes Dean’s stomach go sour). Last Dean checked, bereavement didn’t include making sure anyone else is okay. He knows the grieving process is different for everyone, but Jesus, this is just plain strange.

“I’m fine, Cas,” he finally says when Cas urges him on. “What the hell is going on with you, man?”

Cas’ eyebrows go up, and Dean sits down across from him.

“I know I said I’d stop asking, but I gotta know, all right?” Dean can hear the pleading tone edge into his voice. “How big of a deal is this? You don’t have to tell me anything about him, but dude.”

He finishes the question with a look that hopefully expresses just how beat down and helpless he feels about all this. Cas just sits there with his arms folded over his chest, mild irritation etched into the faint lines on his face, and pointedly does not look at Dean when he answers.

“Ephraim had a regrettably large influence on me and my life,” he says. “We did not part on good terms. I saw him a week before he died, and, I admit, it did kick up more issues than I thought it would so many years later. Any feelings I had for him were disdainful. That being said, he didn't deserve to die in the way that he did.”

“And how’s that?” Dean asks before he can help himself.

“Dean, I don’t want to talk about it,” Cas snaps, then realizes the harshness of his words and sighs. “I know you’re trying to help. I appreciate it, Dean, I do. You’ve been nothing short of amazing the entire time I’ve been here. Please understand I don’t want to talk about this with _anyone_ , not just you.”

Dean lets out a breath through his nose, but nods.

He’s pretty sure Sam would be able to crack him in a good five, maybe ten minutes, but Dean just doesn’t know his way around people all that well, so he’ll just have to live with it.

Cas must feel guilty, though, because he comes around the table and leans down for a kiss. Nothing elaborate, just a quick smack before Castiel pulls back and rests their foreheads together.

A few moments pass before Castiel asks, “Wanna fool around in your room before I have to head home?”

How is that even a question? Dean would sleep with this man any time, anywhere. Should they have a quick tumble before Cas goes? Absolutely. Should they do that instead of talk (which is what Dean suspects they need to be doing)? Probably not.

But it’s something Cas wants and something Cas needs, and it’s something that Dean can give him. And anything he can give Castiel is his.

**oo**

The first week and a half back at work passes quickly, as Dean has found they do when you’re a teacher. It’s a constant barrage of fires to put out, students to handle, and each day ends with him flat out exhausted. Castiel has been letting Dean stay over with him more nights than not, which has lead to them coming into work together more often. By the time they’re halfway through the second week, Dean doesn’t know how he’s even standing up still, nor does he know how he’s going to make it through the last three and a half months of instruction without keeling over.

Dean parks the Impala out in the staff parking lot, Cas in the seat beside him. It’s too early for anyone to be here, but the line at the coffee shop didn’t take nearly the amount of time that they thought it would. It’s all disgustingly domestic, something Dean knows he would have had a panic attack over not even two months ago. The more he’s around Cas, the less and less anxiety-inducing it becomes.

“Did we just accidentally get some down time?” asks Dean.

“It would appear so,” Cas looks around, then scoots over so he’s pressed up against him.

Okay, maybe he spoke too soon about the anxiety stuff, but that doesn’t stop his arm, seemingly on autopilot, from coming up and draping around Cas’ shoulders. He fluffs Cas’ messy hair with his fingers, shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath in, reminds himself that it’s okay.

“Hey,” Cas prods him, and Dean’s eyes fly open. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Dean moans and rests their heads together.

“Call in a bomb threat,” he grumbles. “I could use the day off.”

“As much as I’d like to, I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Psh,” Dean brings his coffee to his lips. “I knew you didn’t love me.”

Before the words can hit Dean’s ears from his mouth, before he can even process the meaning behind them, he’s blindsided.

A soft admission, “I do, though.”

Dean’s heart nearly beats right out of his chest.

 _What_?

… why?

A look at Cas reveals he’s just as stunned.

Dean, being the wonderfully eloquent creature that he is, just says, “Huh?”

“Damn it,” Cas sighs and scoots away slightly, leaving the space between them cold. “I’d meant to tell you somewhere… well, that preferably was not the front seat of your car in the parking lot at work.”

“Cas,” Dean’s throat closes around his words. It’s just as well, because he doesn’t know what to say and Cas doesn’t look like he's done talking.

“Don’t... “ he begins, but reconsiders, then starts again. “I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean. But I do love you, Dean. And I should have told you as soon as I realized, but--”

Cas takes a breath, and honestly? Dean is kind of unsure of what to do with this. It’s a piece of information, like anything else, but there’s so much intimacy it implies, so many feelings wrapped up in it. It leaves Dean feeling elated and devastated all at once.

Someone _loves_ him.

Someone loves _him_.

It’s a whole mix of everything that makes Dean’s head hurt even more than it did before. Cas must see this on his face, because he scoots back all the way to his side, ready to get out of the car.

His damn arm is still on autopilot, though, and before Cas can even open the door, Dean closes a hand around his wrist. Cas looks like he’s about to combust, looks like he expects Dean to do anything other than what he does.

He closes the space between them and pulls Cas into a kiss. There’s a harsh breath that comes out of Cas’ nose, a soft noise of relief in the back of his throat. When he pulls away, Dean clears his throat.

“Should probably get inside,” he says. “Before we get caught up necking in the car like a couple of teenagers.”

Cas just stares at him, though. So Dean gives him a smile and pats his thigh, trying not to let on that every single part of him is screaming to abort, to get the fuck out before shit goes south. Placated (maybe), Cas nods and they exit the car.

They trod to the front office together, sign in and head back to their rooms. Dean pauses while Cas unlocks his door. He checks that no one’s watching before he leans in close to Cas’ ear, “Don’t forget to eat before class starts.”

Cas glances over, only to be met with Dean’s lips on his cheek.

“See you at break?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods, “See you at break.”

Dean makes it nearly halfway through second period before the morning really hits him hard. That headache has migrated deeper into his head, as every five minutes or so, Cas creeps back up into his mind. His admission rolls back and forth, flows into and fills every wrinkle in Dean’s brain.

How can three words, how can such an abstract concept make his heart leap, make his underarms sweat, make him want to run as fast as he can in the opposite direction and fly all at once?

There’s just… there’s no reason for it. Why would Cas love him when all he’s done since they’ve met is prove how fucked up he is? He’s not like Sam, who’s smart and ridiculously nice, and he’s not like Jess, who’s _so fucking cool_ it’s practically unfair. He’s certainly not like Cas, who has so many amazing things about him that it would take far too long to list them all.

Dean is just Dean.

That’s all.

Being Dean doesn’t get you a whole hell of a lot, even during the best times. At best, it gets you the love of a wonderful person, love you don’t deserve.  Then _that_ kicks you down off cloud nine and lands you right back into the mud, because you can’t give it back.

Oh, fuck. Castiel _loves him_. It’s as though every time he remembers this, he’s hearing it for the first time.

Fuck, does that mean--he didn’t even think they were together. They weren’t, right? Not that loving someone is contingent upon being in a relationship with them, and Dean certainly hadn’t been sleeping around, or anything, but.

_But how the fuck is Castiel Novak in love with him?_

Sometimes even the mud is too good for Dean.  

It ends up that he’s so spaced out that he doesn’t even see the rogue dodgeball heading right for his face, just hears the ‘smack!’ it makes as it hits his cheek.

“Whoa, Winchester!” he hears Dorothy’s voice, then a whistle. It’s not the first time he’s gotten a ball to the face (heh), but damn, it’s a hell of a lot worse when you don’t even see it coming.  He’s pretty sure there’s no blood or impending nosebleed, but there’s gonna be one hell of a sore spot on his face for a while.

“You all right?” Dorothy asks.

“Mr. Winchester, I’m so sorry,” comes the trembling voice of one of his tenth graders. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Dean waves them all off. “Just a dodgeball, no worries. Accidents happen.”

His student is in tears, though, so he takes her aside and lets her sit on the gym bleachers until she’s calmed down. Really, he should be thanking her for getting him out of his head and back into class. He has to keep professional while he’s at work, after all.

The shower bell rings and Dean, okay, breaks the rules and sneaks out two minutes before the period actually ends, so he can get to Cas’ room before he leaves. He makes it to the door just as the bell rings, and Dean narrowly misses getting hit in the face _again_.

Christ, it’s like living in a Three Stooges bit that just won’t end.

A couple of students greet him as they pass, and when enough have vacated the room, Dean steps inside. There are a few stragglers hanging around while Cas erases the whiteboard.

“Hey, Mr. Winchester!” one of the stragglers greets, startling Cas into turning around.

“Hey, guys,” Dean waves. He’s not sure of what to do with his hands next. Cas, however, appears to have forgotten everything from this morning in the car, and moves around the classroom as he would any other day.

“How was your first class?” Castiel asks just as the last of his students vacate and the door slams shut.

“Are we together?” Dean blurts, because apparently that’s what he does now. Cas drops his marker in the middle of writing the word ‘Agenda’ and turns to face Dean completely.

“I’ll assume that means your morning was wrought with panic and deep thought,” Cas concludes, then frowns, “What’s that red mark on your face?”

“One of the kids hit me with a dodgeball. Pretty sure it was an accident,” Dean waves it off. He takes a step closer and repeats, “Cas, are we together?”

Cas gives that token calculating look, like he knew this was coming but still didn’t prepare. His tongue darts out, wets his lips, and he asks, “This isn’t because of what I said this morning, is it?”

“Well, kinda,” Dean shrugs. “I mean, I wouldn’t have thought about it otherwise.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow, “Nearly six months I’ve known you and you’re telling me it’s never once crossed your mind to be in a romantic relationship with me?”

“No, not that,” Dean shakes his head, trying to keep his grip on reality firm. “I’d thought about couple stuff, just… not all that seriously. I mean, you’re a guy, Cas.”

“Very astute,” comes Cas’ wry retort.

“Whatever,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Look, I knew we were kinda together-ish but-not-really or however the fuck you wanna say it. I’ve never been in a relationship with a guy, Cas. I don’t know jack shit about this kinda stuff.”

Cas sighs, “I don’t have spectacular luck with relationships either, as you know, but I do recall that sex and gender are hardly relevant in how you act within one.”

“I know, but…” Dean bites his lips shut. God, why the fuck is this so goddamned difficult? “Look, I’ve never been with anyone like you, man, mentally or,” he gestures to Cas’ crotch, “Physically.”

“Charming,” Castiel smirks, folding his arms over his chest.

“See, then you look at me like that,” Dean falters, every inch of him trying to escape this skin he’s stuck in. “I just--I like having you in my life. And you, y’know…”

He looks up, and Cas just says, “Love you?”

“Yeah,” Dean swallows. It makes sense, doesn’t it? If Cas loves him and he’s also nice to be around, then they should be together, shouldn’t they?

Too lost in thought to continue, Dean looks up at Cas. He watches him step forward, feels his nerves spark under his skin as Cas takes his hand. Dean fights his natural urge to pull away, and lets Cas place his other hand on his neck. His breath slips out of his lungs, all of his senses crying out for this man in front of him.

Cas pecks a kiss to his lips--chaste, innocent, almost not even there at all.

“Would you like to be my boyfriend, Dean?” he asks softly.

His heart now a steady buzz in his chest, Dean nods.

**oo**

_“Hello Dean, it’s Pamela Barnes. Listen, I had you scheduled for today at four-thirty, but, as you know, you never turned up. Gimme a call back and we’ll schedule another follow-up, just so I know where you’re at as far as your dosage and your mood has been. Hopefully I’ll talk to you soon.”_

**oo**

The sleepless nights are fewer and far between these days, but every so often Dean finds himself unable to settle.

Tonight, unfortunately, is one of those nights.

He put the picture of him and his mom on his nightstand again, the moment he came home the other day, when he was still high on _I have a boyfriend_ , because there was no one in the world he wanted to tell more than mom.

After two whole days of sitting on the information, it was really starting to scratch away at his insides. At first he hadn’t wanted to tell Sam and Jess because, hey, what if Cas changed his mind? That would be embarrassing. But he knows that if mom were still here, he would have run all the way home to tell her.

Mom would have liked Cas.

Moreover, she would have liked what Cas did for Dean. He may be emotionally stunted and a little dumb, but he’s not so dumb that he can’t see how happy Cas makes him. Mom always wanted him happy. Especially while she was going through her treatments, flat out miserable, her body turning against her, she always had a special eye out for her eldest son.

Maybe she knew there was something wrong with him, or that there could be. After the onset of depression, Dean figured he’d forever failed at being happy. The thing mom wanted most for him and he’d fucked himself up so hard that his brain literally could not make it happen on its own.

But Cas counterbalanced that from the first second he saw him, and as much as Dean has kicked and screamed and fought to keep this part of himself at bay, Cas brought it out.

Ugh, fuck this.

Dean throws his covers back and pads out of his room. Whiskey and a couple minutes of shitty late night programming will put an end to this. So what if he falls asleep on the couch? A nap on the couch will get him through his Friday a lot more easily than a long night of tossing and turning.

Except, when he steps into the living room and sees Sam in the exact same spot, doing the exact same thing, Dean frowns.

“What’re you doing up?” he asks, and though Sam startles, it’s slight.

He looks back at Dean and replies, “Couldn’t sleep.”

"Man, same," Dean yawns. "Can I join you?"

Sam hums, and Dean figures that means yes. Dean pours himself a couple fingers of Jack, then comes to sit beside Sam.

It's a few minutes before Dean asks, "What do you remember about mom?"

Sam frowns, "Like before she got sick?"

"Yeah," Dean nods, glancing over.

Sam blows out a whiskey-soured breath, "Not a whole lot, to be honest. I was only seven when all that started, man. And you were the mama's boy anyway."

"Fuck you," Dean mumbles, unable to muster any malice to put behind the statement.

"What's with the mom talk anyway?" asks Sam.

Dean shrugs, "Just really miss her, I guess."

Sam hums, like it's not weird to miss someone after they've been gone for sixteen years.

Shit, he's officially not had mom around for as many years as he'd had her, more or less. That’s a really weird thought that, after this year, she’ll have been gone for more than half of his life.

“So, what’s up?” Sam tips back another sip of whiskey.

Dean looks over at his brother, notices the deep worry lines on his face that were most certainly not there this time last year.

“What’s up?” Dean parrots back, and Sam shrugs.

“You only ever talk about missing mom when something’s bothering you,” he shifts down and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. “So, what’s up?”

Dean sighs. It’s too much. If he keeps it in any longer, shit’s gonna get ugly.

“You can’t freak out,” he says, which, of course, has Sam immediately sitting back up straight. “Dude, chill. It’s-- Cas and I are together. Like, together-together. Officially, or whatever.”

At Sam’s gawking, Dean feels the need to clarify, “That means he’s my boyfriend.” And after a moment, “Wow, that’s still not easy to say.”

“Dean, I don’t even know what to say,” Sam lets out a laugh. “That’s…”

“Ridiculous, I know.”

“ _Awesome_ ,” Sam smiles. It takes him a few moments to remember the context in which Dean ended up admitting it, though, and he falters a little.

“I think mom would have been really happy for you, too,” Sam says. “She would’ve liked Cas.”  

Dean nods, “Yeah, I think so too.”

**oo**

"All right, you got me. I was about sure you weren't gonna call back."

 “Yeah… Pam, I’m real sorry I forgot--”

“Well, I’m not the one who has to pay for a missed session,” Pam says. “Can you do Monday?”

“What time?”

“Looks like I have an opening at eight-thirty in the morning or six in the evening.”

Dean lets out a breath, “I can do eight-thirty. First period’s my prep period at work, so that should be fine.”

“All right. Got you down in the books for Monday the twenty-seventh at eight-thirty.”

“Great, see you then.”

“If you say so, tiger.”

Dean smiles as he hangs up, then goes into his calendar to set a reminder.

Eight-thirty on Monday.

Today's date, highlighted, stares back at him. January twenty-fourth. 

Dean frowns, wondering why the date looks so strange, and then realizes.

_Goddamn it._

**oo**

“How do you forget your own birthday?” asks Castiel as he shoves clothes into an overnight bag.

“Pretty easily, apparently,” Dean sighs, watching Cas over the back of his couch. He’s about as exhausted as he is at the end of every Friday, and would really love if he could just fall asleep right here, but Dean promised to be home this weekend. Probably because it's his birthday today and everyone else remembered  _except_ for him. 

Plus, if he falls asleep here, he knows he won’t want to move until sometime on Sunday afternoon.

Cas zips up his bag and looks over at him. Oddly enough, this is the first time they’ve really gotten to be alone-alone since they decided to be together. It’s only been a few days, sure, but he feels like there should be a honeymoon period or something.

Dean only comes out of his head when Cas enters into his personal space, when he cups Dean’s jaw in his hands and offers him a smile, “You think too much.”

A quick peck turns tender all too easily, leads to Cas’ lips molding against his, to Cas’ thumbs stroking over the apples of his cheeks, to Dean wrapping his arms around Cas and holding him there. It steals every last breath right out of his chest, and it is as goddamned terrifying as it is awesome.

When they pull apart, Dean bows their foreheads together, “You’re still the only person who thinks that.”

“Mm, doubtful,” Cas smiles back. “Would you like to do anything special for your birthday?”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise. He never wants to do anything for his birthday, honestly. Why the hell would he celebrate something like being born, and furthermore, why would anyone want to celebrate it with him?

“Thinking too much,” Cas reminds him and presses a kiss to the end of Dean’s nose.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, but that apparently isn’t going to fly.

“We could go out to dinner,” Cas suggests. “Or spend all weekend naked in your bed.”

“No to the first and I don’t think Sam and Jess would appreciate the second,” Dean replies.

“I could tie you down and gag you if you really think you couldn’t keep yourself quiet,” Cas shrugs, sending an involuntary shudder up Dean’s spine. “We might have to make a stop at a specialty store on the way back to your place, but arrangements can be made.”

Cas punctuates this with a soft swipe of his tongue over Dean’s upper lip.

“You’re such a dick,” Dean’s insult loses its edge as it comes out on the tail end of a desperate breath.

“So you’ve said,” Cas then grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around, pushes him down flat on the couch and leaps over the back cushions. He straddles Dean’s hips, ducks down and presses their bodies flush. And then he does that thing where he kisses different parts of Dean’s face, like there’s more to it than just getting their rocks off.

Though, they’re _together_ now, and that is what _together_ implies, right? Kissing for the sake of kissing? Cas likes doing that kind of thing, paying attention to the parts of Dean that so often go neglected.

“You know I’m gonna fall asleep if you keep doing that, right?” Dean yawns as Cas’ lips suck tiny kisses down his neck.

“Do you want me to stop?” Cas murmurs, and Dean’s eyes slip shut.

However, he only indulges Cas very briefly before he gives him a firm pat on the ass and declares, “Let’s go.”

Traffic in Los Angeles on a Friday afternoon is every manner of frustrating. Baby already has an irresponsibly low gas mileage, but that’s not her fault. But every asshole in the city is out today and they’re all right around Dean, all the time. Far beyond tired, Dean is downright exhausted after the last two weeks.

He has to think carefully before he determines, yes, he took his meds this morning. It’s almost worse, in a way, since that means he’s in such a shitty mood that it transcends his antidepressant cocktail.

“You know you waste more fuel when you drive angry, right?”

“You really think this is the time to nitpick how I drive?” Dean snips back before he means to. Cas puts up his hands, but Dean still calls him a know-it-all little shit anyway.

It’s another five minutes of stop and go before Dean realizes that was probably an Asshole Move and mumbles, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Cas yawns. Of course he gets to be tired. He could nap all the way back to Dean’s if he wanted.

Lucky bastard.

“Are you all right?” asks Cas then, and Dean white-knuckles the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry,” Dean groans as they stop yet again. “The whole boyfriend thing isn’t really off to a great start, is it?”

“In what way?” Cas cocks his head. “You’ve done nothing to undercut my expectations so far. Though, it hasn’t even been a week yet.”

“Thanks,” Dean snips again.

“Dean, you’re operating under the assumption that there’s only one right way to act with a significant other, which you know isn’t true.”

Dean only grunts in response.

“Trust me,” Cas reassures him then, “You would have to fuck up on a grand scale to be my worst relationship. In fact, three days in the running, you’re already my best.”

Dean’s brows furrow, “Well, that just makes me feel bad for you.”

Cas jabs him in the side, “Jackass.”

Dean laughs at that. It’s not much, but it’s a lot better than seething all the way home. When he looks over at Cas, though… it’s not hard for Dean to see the hurt there. He may have a good poker face, but Dean happens to be very good at playing poker.

“So,” Dean looks straight ahead. “Anything I should know about? Past assholery that I should try to steer clear of?”

He can feel Cas turn to look at him. Dean may be good at reading a blank face, but he’s about as subtle as an oncoming train.

But Cas turns away, facing forward now too.

“Dean, if you were anything like the people I’ve previously dated, I wouldn’t have bothered with you in the first place.”

Dean doesn’t think that’s supposed to hurt, but it does. Though, whether it hurts him or that ever-growing part of him that cares so deeply for Cas, he can’t tell.

“I was very glad to discover that you were you,” Cas says then, and that right there? That’s a genuine Castiel smile flashing Dean’s way.

Dean figures he’d better take that one and put it in his back pocket for safe-keeping.

**oo**

Cas jogs in the mornings regardless of where he is. Much to Baron’s delight, he has no problem jogging with a hyperactive companion. So while Dean and Angus remain passed out in bed, the other boys go out and greet the morning with vigor.

And it so happens that they run for so long that Dean can keep sleeping, then wake up, take a quick shower, and make breakfast before they get back.

When they do return, Baron is always grateful for the bowl of water Dean sets in front of him, and Cas is grateful for the eggs and toast and (ugh) turkey bacon that Dean makes for him. Dean thinks he might be a housewife by the time he’s thirty-five, at this point.

Sam and Jess have long been up and about, cycling in and out while Dean ate, and now Cas. While Sam leaves to run errands, Jess takes a spot at the table and starts unpacking her teacher bag.

Damn it.

Dean had been hoping she had out-of-the-house stuff to do today too. Not that this is going to keep him from having sex, mind, but it’s going to make it a hell of a lot more challenging.

“You two look every inch the happy couple,” she remarks. Dean doesn’t even know why he’s surprised that Sam told her.

“Every inch and then some,” Cas agrees as he finishes the last bite of his breakfast. He rinses his dish in the sink, then comes up behind Dean and kisses him on the top of his head. He says, “I’m going to take a shower.”

There’s nothing inherently erotic about the words, but that doesn’t stop Dean’s face from lighting up like it’s fire season. He’s pretty sure Cas means that he wants Dean waiting in the bedroom by the time he’s done.

It’s only after the bathroom door closes that Jess turns her attention on him.

“Oh, my god, Dean,” she whispers.

Dean grimaces, and she smacks him on the arm.

“When the hell were you going to tell me?” she scowls, and smacks him again. “I had to find out from Sam? Are you serious?”

“Hey, cool it, sister,” Dean scoots out of her swing range. “I didn’t wanna say anything too soon, just in case… y’know, he changed his mind or something.”

“Dean, something tells me that Cas isn’t the one who changes his mind about this kind of thing,” Jess props her hand on her chin. “I hate to break it to you, but I think he likes you.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Dean folds his arms over his chest. “He loves me.”

Torn between elation and what Dean suspects is shock, she mutters, “Well, we always knew he had questionable taste, didn’t we?”

Dean flips her off.

“Well, if the problem isn’t with him, do you think maybe it’s you?”

“For fuck’s sake, use your psych degree on someone else,” Dean groans. Jess doesn’t reply, just raises an eyebrow and waits for Dean to speak again. Therefore, seizing an excuse to leave that is not ‘I’m gonna go get some dick’, Dean stages a formal protest and stands.

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this,” he says. “I got rights.”

“Sure,” Jess nods as Dean starts walking backwards toward his room.

“Hate to tell ya, but your psychobabble don’t work on me,” Dean insists, courage kicking up now that he’s further away.

“No, of course not,” Jess agrees. “You’re far too advanced for the likes of me.”

“That’s right,” Dean can no longer see her, as he’s now in the hallway, pushing into his room. He shuts the door behind himself and lets out a breath. He doesn’t need Jess telling him that the problem is with him. He knows that’s where the goddamn problem is.

That’s where the problem always is.

Dean flops down on his bed and stretches into the nest of blankets, long since left cold. They still smell like him and Cas and dogs and sweat and sex, and maybe Dean should change his sheets today.

He thinks for a moment that he might drift back off, but then he hears the shower shut off and his dick immediately gets other ideas. Dean swallows and closes his hand over himself, already starting to swell. He squeezes, it feels nice, and soon Dean finds himself wriggling out of his sweats. Dick in hand, he starts to stroke himself as stiff as he can get before Cas comes in.

“Well,” he hears Cas say as he shuts the door behind him. “This is certainly a delightful turn of events.”

Dean sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Cas is feeling himself up over his towel, dark wet hair awry, carrying the scent of Dean’s soap on his skin. Dean grins and beckons him forth with open arms.

Cas divests himself of his towel, but Dean is the one who ends up grabbing his hips and pulling him forward. Dean presses open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of Cas’ flat belly, scrapes his teeth and scratches his fingernails, Cas’ erection only centimeters from his lips. Precome already beads at the tip, which leaves Dean with the sneaking suspicion that Cas was playing with himself in the shower, anticipating what he and Dean may very well be doing when he was done.

The more and more he fooled around with Cas, the more he realized just how much he appreciated and enjoyed the male form. Cas is fucking gorgeous, from the slim taper of his hips to the way his cock arches up so beautifully when it’s waiting for Dean’s attention.

Dean grabs Cas and teases a slow hand over him.

“You having fun in the shower without me?” he glances up, knowing there’s a stupid grin on his face.

Cas just arches an eyebrow, smiling back, “Might I remind you what I came in to find you doing, Dean Winchester?”

Dean hums, then sucks the very tip of Cas’ dick between his lips--just enough that he gets a nice taste of how wet he is there.

He sinks his lips down over him and revels in the way Cas’ fingers tangle in his hair. Not that he ever thought he would one day be proud of how well he sucks dick, but something swells in his chest anyway, sets his shoulders back and his mouth working up a nice rhythm.

And Cas lets it go on and on. Dean feels like, if the roles were reversed, he’d have come by now. Was he actually doing it wrong? Cas wasn’t making any of his uncomfortable noises, so what the hell? Dean kept at it until the ache in his jaw became too much and he had to pull back.

“Okay up there?” his voice comes out a little rough. Cas’ answer? Pull Dean’s head back by his hair and crash their lips together. It’s insistent, carnal, and Dean lets himself fall right into it. He lets Cas ply his mouth with his tongue, lets him lick and nip and bite and suck his way down his jaw, his neck. He lets him shove his thighs apart, lets him kneel between them, and when Cas sucks his cock into that silky liquid heat, Dean lets himself indulge in a soft groan of satisfaction.

He likes bossy Cas. What’s more, he’d like to know just how it feels to have bossy Cas above him, inside him, to have his legs wrapped around him or up on his shoulders.

Okay, so the ‘bossy’ part is optional, but the Cas part is not.

When Cas pulls off of him (with a smack that makes Dean’s muscles tremble), he keeps his hand working slowly, but steadily. He mouths along Dean’s length, until he’s settled down to tongue at his balls.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean definitely hears himself swear, and hears Cas’ low chuckle in response.

Then he pulls away entirely to retrieve the lube from Dean’s nightstand. Still deep between Dean’s legs, Cas kisses the sensitive skin on the inside of Dean’s thigh.

“Should I get myself ready?” Cas asks Dean’s dick instead of him, licking from root to tip in one agonizing drag.

“No, _ah_ \--” Dean’s breath hitches when Cas squeezes hard enough to get himself another little flood of precome. Except the sound of the word ‘no’ sets Cas completely still.

“No, what?” he asks.

“No,” Dean sucks in and blows out a shallow puff of air. “I wanna--I want you to get me ready.”

Cas’ eyes meet his.

“Really?”

Dean nods and rakes his fingers through Cas’ wet tresses. He knows Cas wouldn’t hurt him, he knows Cas loves him and will take care of him, because that’s what he’s done since they started doing this crap.

Cas draws in a breath, recalibrating his entire plan of attack before he comes to a decision.

“Okay, lie back,” he instructs, voice having lost its bossy edge, but retaining enough control that Dean does as he’s told. Then Cas asks, “Do you have any thoughts or opinions on rimming?”

Dean feels his face heat up all over again, and he moves to sit back up, only Cas stops him.

“No need to look up,” his hands work into the newly tensed muscles in Dean’s legs. “Just answer the question.”

A small noise escapes Dean’s throat and he swallows hard.

“Never done it,” he says. “On, uh… either end.”

Cas hums, his fingers pulling every bit of discomfort out of Dean’s body. He thinks it’s the only thing that’s keeping him from going totally soft with nerves.

“We don’t have to do it,” Cas reassures, thumbs now spreading Dean’s cheeks ever so slightly. “It is lovely, though, and I’ve found it’s as relaxing as it is stimulating.”

He feels exposed. Nobody was ever supposed to see him like this, soft-hearted and pliant under their touch, and yet here he is.

“Shall we give it a try?” Cas asks.

Fuck, that’s his teacher voice. That’s not supposed to be sexy. God, _why is it sexy?_

Dean bites back a moan in favor of a quick, “ _Yeah_.”

He lets Cas twist him in whatever way he needs to be twisted, then feels himself spread wide open.

He swears he hears Cas mutter a soft, _“Beautiful_ ”, feels it settle warm against his sensitive skin.

And then Cas’ tongue swipes wet and hot against his hole and he gasps.

“All right?” Cas asks.

“Yeah,” Dean swallows again. “Kinda bizarre.”

“Should I keep going?”

“Definitely.”

Because it’s the kind of bizarre Dean can get used to. It’s that kind of wrong that slowly melts into Dean wanting to break every single rule that comes his way. He starts getting hard again under no touch, just the sensation of Cas’ tongue and lips pulling him apart.

Dean sinks so far into it that he barely notices when Cas pulls back. He hears the lube click open and shut, then feels one of Cas’ fingers glide inside him.

“Tight,” Cas kisses his thigh, strokes over the other with his free hand. “Very tight. I’ve got you, handsome. You’re okay.”

While Dean’s heart stammers Cas hooks his knees over his shoulders, crooks his finger and strokes that spot inside him. He tries to calm himself, remembering that Cas has fingered him before, only getting Cas’ dick inside him has never been the end game.

As Cas keeps adding fingers, Dean can’t bring himself to recall just why that is. Two is tough, still nice; three is only nice after Cas slathers his fingers with more lube, the stretch more than he would like.

Fuck, he can’t relax and that’s going to make the whole thing go south.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice comes out low, husky.

“I know, I’m trying,” Dean whines, tightening around Cas’ fingers.

“No, I know,” Cas hums. “You’re doing beautifully. Absolutely perfect. I was going to suggest that you come beforehand. Sometimes that helps relax the muscles and quell the anxiety.”

Dean swallows hard again, and murmurs, “Yeah, okay.”

“Can I?” Cas asks.

It’s the first time Dean thinks he’s heard Cas ask for permission to do anything, or at least the first time he’s heard it asked so sincerely.

“Yeah,” Dean repeats, louder this time.

God bless this man, he does not screw around. No sooner does he have the go ahead is Dean’s dick back in his mouth. He swallows him all the way down, until Dean can feel his throat muscles closing around him, and he lets out a low moan.

It definitely takes some of the burn away, and eventually it’s nothing but him and Cas and the heat building in Dean’s lower belly. It’s Dean not knowing whether to fuck back on Cas’ fingers or up into Cas’ mouth when he pulls Dean out of his throat.

And Cas.

Cas works like he’s been playing Dean all his life, and can now demonstrate his mastery.

Dean arches off the bed as he comes, his orgasm ripping out of him and sending him up into the stratosphere. When he comes down, he floats, nice and boneless, back onto the bed.

“Better?” Cas asks, hands running up Dean’s sides and over his chest.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean grins, and then all out yelps when Cas takes his spent cock in his hand and starts stroking. Only, he doesn’t let up right away, and Dean’s body jerks and twists, his accusation coming out in a laugh, “You fucking asshole.”

Cas lets him go, laughing along with him. He up kisses Dean’s abdomen and chest, all the way up to his lips. Cas pushes the taste of Dean’s come into his mouth, leaving it in the little where it will linger the longest.

He pulls back and asks, “Do you still want me on top?”

Dean gives a dazed nod, and this time Cas allows him to push himself up on his elbows. Cas stands and motions for Dean to scoot up. He keeps between Dean’s legs even on the bed, resting his thighs on top of his as he reaches for a condom.

His cock is dark red, leaking precome in a string down onto the bed as he works the condom open.

“That looks like it hurts,” Dean says, wanting nothing more to reach out and take it in his hand, his mouth, to give it all the love and attention it deserves.

“It’s fine,” Cas flops his wet hair off his forehead and rolls the condom on.

He sure does say that a lot. About everything.

His pondering is short lived, however, as Cas hikes him up further and starts to press inside.

Cas, as per usual, was right--it’s not as tough when you’re stretched and you’ve already come. It’s still a little like being split open right down the middle, but it’s easier to adjust once Cas is buried all the way inside him.

There’s that little pinch between Cas’ eyebrows as his eyes squinch shut. He trembles with the effort of keeping still under such intense sensation, trying to keep himself under control.

Dean doesn’t want him in control. Control is every other part of Cas’ life. He’s one of the most controlled people Dean knows. He wants Cas raw and reckless.

Dean tightens around Cas, even though, yeah, that hurts kind of more than he’d like. It sends Cas pitching forward, his face hovering just above Dean’s.

So, Dean does it again.

 _“Fuck_ , Dean,” Cas keens into the crook of his neck, his voice no longer that wry, sarcastic monotone, now something else entirely.

“That’s the idea,” Dean manages. He pets Cas’ hair, kisses the shell of his ear. When Cas comes out of his hiding spot, Dean cups his face in his hands. He’s completely full up in every possible sense.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks.

“Quit worrying about me,” Dean insists against his lips, “and just fuck me already.”

Apparently those are the magic words. Cas’ hips start off a little slow, testing the drag before he determines it safe to pick up the pace. It goes from one of the most tender moments Dean has ever experienced and devolves into skin-slapping guttural fucking in a manner of seconds.

Already stupid with one orgasm, Dean’s mind blanks out fairly quickly, instinct now taking over. He rolls against Cas as his body will let him, squeezes his legs around Cas’ waist and grips at the sheets. Whether or not they’re being quiet enough, Dean can’t say. He does know that he makes this sound that he’s never made before, every time Cas nails that one specific spot inside him.

Even if he doesn’t come again, holy god, this is definitely fucking _amazing_.

And even with their roles reversed, Dean can tell when Cas is close to coming. He locks his legs tight and wraps his arms around Cas’ neck as his arms give.

“I got you, baby,” he whispers into Cas’ ear. Cas groans and swallows anything else Dean could possibly say in a kiss. He tenses, rides out the wave, and Dean holds him through it. It’s so weird, feeling Cas come from the other side, but it’s a weird Dean would definitely like to get used to.

He cradles Cas close as he comes down, stroking and kissing and nuzzling until they can muster up the will to move.

Cas slides out of Dean, and he feels his breath go with him. Already Dean can tell he’s going to be sore tomorrow. Not just his ass, but several other muscle groups in his lower regions. He may as well take advantage and set himself right on the bed before the inevitable strain sets in.

After he tosses the condom, Cas joins him. He snuggles up close to Dean, which ends in Dean wrapping him up in his arms, tangling their legs together, holding Cas to his chest. His poor Cas looks beat to hell and back, just about how Dean feels, now that he thinks about it.

“Cas,” he whispers.

“Hm.”

“You’re awesome.”

Whatever Cas’ response is, it’s lost as he passes out right there on Dean’s chest.

Dean takes a big breath, as though breathing in fresh mountain air, and smiles at his ceiling.

**oo**

“So, we’ll keep you at your same dosage, I’d say,” Pam says as she looks through her notes. Something on one of the pages gives her pause, and she looks up. “Dean, did you just have your birthday?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean’s still got this goofy feeling in his chest.

“Thirty…” she waits for him to supply the second number.

“Two,” says Dean.

“Wow,” Pam smiles. “Well, happy birthday, kiddo. You do anything special?”

Dean can’t help the smile on his face when he replies, “Slept most of the night, after work.  Went out for burgers with my brother and sister-in-law on Saturday, though. Then we had pie.”

“Not a cake person, huh,” Pam grins.

“No way,” Dean shakes his head. “There’s a time and place for cake: never and in the trash.”

“Sounds like something you’d find on a pie tin in a Hallmark store,” Pam shakes her head, fondly. “You sound like you’re in a good place, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “I think I am.”

“I still think you should be seeing a behavioral therapist,” she says then, but unlike before, it doesn’t send icy rage up his spine.

“What for?” Dean still asks. “If I’m doing fine, why would I?”

“This is gonna be a little crude, but I trust you’re gonna be able to handle this analogy,” Pam leans forward. “A patient has herpes, do they only have it during a flare up, or is it always there?”

Dean can’t quite help the “eaugh” that escapes his mouth.

“Yeah, well, it’s applicable,” Pam shrugs. “Dean, you’re diagnosed with very severe clinical depression. You can’t just pop your pills and expect it to go away. Medication makes it so that you can get to a place, like where you are right now, where you’re receptive to basically retraining your brain and the way it thinks. My guy, he’s a little young, but I’ll tell you, I’ve never had one complaint from anyone I’ve sent to him. He’s good. And if you want, I’ll give him a call and let him know you’re going to make an appointment. I like you, Dean. I really do. And I want to give you the push you need to help get you up and running at maximum efficiency again.”

“Again,” Dean lets out a laugh, Pam’s words soaking deep into him.

“Well, then maybe helping you run at maximum efficiency for the first time,” Pam amends. “Can I give you his information?”

‘No’ is on the tip of his tongue, but something holds it back. Maybe Pam’s just finally worn him down, or maybe there’s enough of his brain working to realize, hey, maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. Whatever it is, he nods, “Yeah, I’ll give him a call.”

Pam looks about as surprised to hear it as Dean is surprised that he’s saying it.

So, with his prescription renewal slips, Pam hands him a business card.

_Garth Fitzgerald IV, Ph.D._

_Cognitive Behavioral Therapist_

It’s daunting, basically holding the next step in his ‘ _healing process’_ between his fingers. Pam trusts him, so that’s at least a good sign. Maybe Dean should trust him too.

He walks back to his car out in the parking lot and locks himself inside. He stares at the card for a good five minutes before he whips out his phone and punches in the number.

The line rings so many times that Dean thinks he’s about to be sent to voicemail. At the last second, a young voice halfway between a twang and a drawl answers, “Good morning, this is Garth Fitzgerald.”

“Uh, hi Garth,” Dean falters. He was expecting to get a receptionist or something.

“Hi there,” Garth replies after Dean’s been silent too long.

“Whoa, sorry,” Dean shakes his head. “My name’s Dean Winchester, I work with Dr. Barnes. Uh, Pamela Barnes.”

“Aw, you’re one of Pammy’s?” Garth’s voice brightens. “She’s a whirlwind, ain’t she?”

“You got that right,” Dean huffs, smiling. “She said you might be able to help me.”

“Well, I’ll sure as heck try,” Garth assures without even a moment of hesitation. “Let’s see… I’m pretty full up right now, but gimme a second. Looks like I got an open slot next Wednesday at four-thirty. I’d love to get you in sooner, but that’s the first available slot I got.”

“No, that’s great,” Dean nods. “That works.”

“All right,” Garth says, writing. “There we go. Dean Winchester, you’re in my book for next Wednesday at four-thirty.”

“Awesome,” Dean’s chest loosens. “Thank you.”

“You’re most certainly welcome,” Garth chirps back. “You have a swell day, now.”

“Yeah, you too,” Dean nods and hangs up his phone.

He relaxes back against his seat and takes in a breath. Figuring he better tell someone, he pulls up a text to Sam.

_‘starting talk therapy next weds.’_

Dean is halfway to work before he gets Sam’s reply, which is nothing more than a haphazard series of exclamation points and smiley emoticons. Dean chuckles and shakes his head.

“Fuckin’ nerd.”

 


	15. I Can't Let You Break

Even though Sandover is a non-denominational school, everyone seems to be in love with the idea of Valentine’s day. Their first day of school in February, a Monday, finds Dean awash in a sea of tittering teens, all concerned with their _Valentine’s Day plans_. What the hell are a bunch of fifteen year olds going to do for Valentine’s Day?

“Jeez, what the hell’s eating you?” Gabriel asks as Dean slams his bag down into a chair. The teacher’s lounge is decorated with paper hearts and red and pink streamers, only further fuelling the hate fire in Dean’s chest.

“It’s the fucking third of February, what’s with all this crap?” he makes a gesture, only for his hand to smack right into a dangling crate paper decoration.

“But Dean hated valentine’s,” Lucifer pipes up from behind his eReader. “The whole valentine’s season! Please don’t ask why, no one quite knows the reason.”

“Yeah, bite me,” Dean mutters.

“You’re a mean one, Winchester,” Lucifer sighs. “You really are a heel.”

“Oh, my god,” Dean can’t even finish pouring his coffee. He just puts his face in his hands as Lucifer continues, now singing with Gabriel, _“You’re as cuddly as a cactus, you’re as charming as an eel, Winchester.”_

“You two boneheads can’t tell me you like any of this mushy crap,” Dean looks around the room.

“No, but I’m not going to piss and moan about it, either,” says Lucifer. “You want a reason to be upset? These decorations are all going to end up in a landfill somewhere, every year thousands of pounds of waste--"

“Thanks, Al Gore,” Gabriel tosses back.

“Climate change isn’t a joke, Gabriel,” Lucifer returns, cold. Gabriel rolls his eyes, but lets Lucifer have this one.

"Good morning, all," greets Bela as she strides into the lounge. "A reminder that my events committee will be coming around this morning to start selling our Valentine's grams."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean grumbles.

"It's to fund our Valentine’s dance, which I'm sure you realize is coming up," says Bela.

“Holy shit, it’s Valentine’s day!?” Gabriel exclaims, earning a chuckle from Lucifer and a hefty roll of the eyes from Bela.

“And what exactly are your Valentine’s grams going to be?” asks Lucifer.

“Carnations, Lucifer,” Bela snips back, pouring hot water over her fragrant tea. “And yes, paper notes will be distributed as well.”

“How delightful,” says Lucifer.

“What the hell are kids gonna do with a bunch of flowers, is my question,” Gabriel leans over his coffee. “Give ‘em something practical, for Christ’s sake. Can’t a kid get a crate of condoms and some lube up in this joint?”

“Holy christ,” Dean hangs his head as Lucifer lets out a loud laugh.

“As much as I’d like that,” says Bela, “This is what the committee wanted to do, so flowers and messages there will be.”

Dean catches Gabriel out of the corner of his eye, making a face that can not be the harbinger of anything good.

But before Gabriel can voice his thoughts, the door to the lounge opens and Cas strides in. Dean feels an instant wave of calm settle over him.

“Good morning, everyone,” Cas greets, then catches a look at all the decorations and knits his brow. “What on earth is going on and how can I stop it?”

“Damn, it’s a whole brood of Debbie Downers in here,” Gabriel whistles. “Where’s the love?”

“In hell, where it belongs,” Lucifer rolls to his feet. He tucks away his eReader and pushes his wire rimmed glasses up his nose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a pop quiz to get ready for.”

He pats Dean on the shoulder as he passes, winks at Cas, and exits the lounge with his fists pumped in the air. Before the door even closes, they can hear Lucifer at the end of the hall, “You better hope you did your reading, Zeddmore.”

“Well, he’s obviously off his rocker,” Bela dismisses. “Regardless of that episode, please remind your students that we’re not delivering any Valentine’s grams with profanity or crude drawings.”

She finishes with a look at Gabriel, who is pointedly not making eye contact.

“All right, I’m out,” says Dean, his free hand in the air. “All this lovey dovey crap is gonna make me nauseous.”

He only has to wait a handful of seconds before Cas catches up with him in the hallway, easily falling into stride with him.

“Good morning, my valentine,” he greets.

“You’re not funny,” Dean can’t fight his smile as Castiel lets out a triumphant laugh. “Seriously, what the hell’s with all the decorations everywhere. I feel like I’m living in Cupid’s ass.”

“That’s a very disturbing image, Dean,” Cas replies.

They automatically end up at Cas’ room--there’s more space, and Dean likes when both of them have a place to sit. He’s finding that it’s sometimes nice to just have coffee with his boyfriend before work starts. Or, rather, it’s nice to have coffee in the same room as his boyfriend, while said boyfriend writes out his agenda for first period.

Then he realizes, crap, he’s in a relationship around Valentine’s day. That hasn’t happened to him since…

That’s never happened to him.

“Do you,” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Are you into Valentine’s day?”

“Not particularly,” Cas shrugs. “Carving out a special day to express to your significant other what you should be expressing every day is… exhausting.”

“Thank god,” Dean lets out a breath. “Like, I wanna hang out, obviously, but the hearts and flowers crap?”

“I am staunchly opposed to hearts and flowers, don’t worry.”

Even when Cas is turned away from him like this, Dean can still hear his smile in his voice.

“Cool,” Dean sags back in his chair. “Not that I don’t wanna do something nice for you, or be, y’know… romantic, or whatever.”

“Romance, like everything else, oddly enough, varies from person to person,” says Cas. He sets his marker down and turns, still staring at his notes. He’s still in his suit jacket, looking all business. While he’s flipping through his planner, Dean stares.

“What?” Cas asks as soon as he realizes that Dean can’t look away.

“Nothin’,” Dean shrugs, thumbing at the warm metal outside of his travel mug. “I’ve never been with someone long enough to make it to Valentine’s day.”

Cas gives a thoughtful hum and takes a seat behind his desk.

“It’s been a while, but,” he looks far off, “Meg and I never did much of anything. I would try, but she was unreceptive. She was also not a fan of the hearts and flowers.”

Dean feels his chest start to turn concave.

“She wanted to be,” Cas props his chin in his hand. “She came close a couple times. I would take her to a nice dinner, I’d try to do things for her, but she never wanted me to. She always told me I was wasting time and money on doing nice things for her.”

And now there’s a boulder on Dean’s chest too.

This isn’t even the ex that Dean has been trying to talk about. Christ, how many shitty people does Cas have to have had in his life?

Dean can’t be another shitty person. He can’t do that to Cas.

“Well, like I said, we can do _something_ ,” Dean stares at his mug.

“You are not Meg, Dean,” Castiel doesn’t even try to hide the amount of fed up he is. Shit.

“Dude, I just wanna do something nice for you,” Dean’s shoulders curl inward. “You deserve one non-shitty Valentine’s.”

“Last Valentine’s day I was sandwiched between a lovely couple I’d met on OKCupid, so...” Castiel shrugs, and at what must be an appalled look on Dean’s face continues, “I’m a lone slut, Dean, this isn’t news to you.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dean shrugs, and Castiel smiles. Dean then suggests, “I’ll cook for you. Sam and Jess are having their last solo Valentine’s down in San Diego that weekend. We can have the whole weekend to ourselves, too.”

“Dean--”

“I’ll make anything you want,” says Dean, leaning in close to Cas’ desk now.

Cas leans in too, their faces now much closer that they should be, and asks, “How about a nice big helping of ‘shut the hell up’?”

Abiding Cas’ request, Dean leans forward and pulls him into a kiss. Dean doesn’t get to touch, doesn’t even get to cop a little feel before--

“Mr. Novak, I-- _whoa_!”

Dean and Cas leap apart, turning to find Maggie Zeddmore and Alan Corbett with their backs now turned to the door.

“Shit,” Dean and Cas both stand, Dean wiping the spit off of his mouth and Cas straightening himself out.

“Um, wow,” says Maggie. “We can totally come back.”

“No, no need,” Cas replies, finally shucking his jacket. “Mr. Winchester and I were just… yeah.”

Dean swears he’s about to collapse. His legs will give out and he’ll wind up on the floor, just a useless pile of person. His heart hasn’t beat this fast in so long. He’s made. They’re made. God, what the fuck were they _thinking_?

“Did you two have a question?” asks Cas.

“Can we turn around?”

“Oh for the love--yes,” Cas nods. “There was nothing quite _that_ inappropriate happening.”

Maggie and Alan turn, both of them flushed with embarrassment. “We- we were just wondering if we could change topics for our project?”

“That depends,” says Cas, snapping seamlessly into teacher mode. “What is your current topic?”

Maggie steps in to take the lead. She fishes her notebook out of her bag and flips to the page she’s looking for. Alan simply stands close by and pretends not to be as shocked as Dean is mortified.

“You, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “You ready for _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ today in class?”

“Oh, yeah,” Alan nods. “That’ll be cool.”

“Awesome,” Dean takes a big breath. “Robert Redford, am I right?”

Alan looks like he doesn’t know quite what to say, so he settles on a nervous laugh and another nod. There isn’t enough time in the day to get into exactly what the hell is wrong with him now.

“Ca--Mr. Novak,” Dean grabs his bag from the floor. “I’m going to go now, so. Have a good day--or,” Dean hisses as he bumps into a desk. “Y’know, whatever.”

“Do you need me to have an ambulance on call?” asks Cas, eyebrows arched high.

“Bite me,” Dean mutters.

Sandover doesn’t have a particularly large student body. If either Maggie or Alan breathe a word of this, it’ll be all over school by tomorrow. If it’s all over school, it’ll get to the teachers, and if it gets to the teachers it will definitely get to administration.

He cannot handle that right now.

At his office door, Dean fumbles with his keys. His hands are so shaky he doesn’t even know what to do with them other than shake them out more. Even when his phone vibrates in his hand, it doesn’t cancel out the shaking.

_‘I’ve explained to Maggie and Alan the importance of keeping what they saw to themselves. They’re both very good kids so I don’t think we have to worry.’_

_‘good. i can’t get fired on top of everything.’_

_‘It will all be okay. Worst case scenario: we’re both out of a job, we can finally get that cottage in the countryside like we always talked about.’_

_‘... youre still not funny, dick.’_

_‘I love you too.’_

**oo**

For the next couple of days, Dean sits on edge. Every _‘Hey, can I talk to you’_ and _‘How’s it going’_ sends Dean’s blood pressure through the roof. Nothing happens, though. Nobody corners him to grill him or denounce him for his inappropriate relationship with his very male coworker. Either Maggie and Corbett kept their word, or not everyone’s already heard it and they’re cool with it.  

By Thursday, Dean’s panic dissolves and he’s back to being annoyed. Everywhere he goes, it’s Valentine’s day. It’s been Valentine’s day since January second in most stores, which he’s used to, but it feels like the commercials on TV are way more out of hand this year.

Apparently he’s not the only one who’s noticed. As soon as he and Gabriel enter that afternoon’s GSA meeting, there’s nothing but gloom to be had. Students sprawl out, defeated, over desks and chairs, and even over the floor.

“Damn,” Gabriel whistles. “What crawled up all your keesters and died?”

“Heteronormativity,” replies Maggie.

Charlie bings a service bell on her desk, “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“Where did you get that?” asks Dean.

“Internet,” Charlie shrugs.

“All righty,” Gabriel shuts the door behind him and perches up at the front of the room. “Chairs in a circle. Let’s get a little love going on here. Winchester,” Gabriel smacks the spot on the tabletop next to him. “Park it right here, you handsome devil.”

“Will you please not hit on me in front of the kids,” Dean rolls his eyes and takes the seat regardless.

“Okay, it’s been a while since we’ve had a sharing session,” says Gabriel. “This is a safe space; you can talk about anything you want.”

The students all shift, none of them wanting to participate. Dean doesn’t blame them--he remembers being a teenager.

However, he doesn’t remember seeing a group of kids so melancholy before, either. He asks, “Did something happen?”

Everyone turns to look at him.

“I’m just asking,” Dean folds his arms over his chest, and at Charlie’s inscrutable look continued, “You all look like you just found out about Kurt Cobain, I feel like I never left 1994.”

“Who’s Kurt Cobain?”

“Oh, my god,” Gabriel puts his face in his hands.

“It’s the Valentine’s grams,” Maggie shoots to her feet. “Lily tried to buy one, and… okay, it’s not really my story to tell. Lily?”

A gaunt girl on the opposite side of the circle heaved a sigh and tucked a lock of her straight blonde hair behind her ear.

“I wanted to buy one to send to my girlfriend, but when I gave them my message they said I wasn’t allowed to send her one.”

Dean’s face immediately falls, but Gabriel is the first to ask, “What the fuck?”

“Dude!” Charlie exclaims. “We don’t even know why--”

“She called me a dyke as I walked away, so,” Lily crossed her arms and looked up at the wall above Maggie’s head. “Yeah, I think we know why.”

“Who was it?” Gabriel looks about ready to pounce.

“Easy, tough guy,” says Dean.

“No easy!” Gabriel shakes his head. “Opposite of easy. This isn’t okay.”

“Did you tell Ms. Talbot?” Dean asks Lily then. “Because I can guarantee you she doesn’t know that happened, and I know for a fact she wouldn’t be cool with that.”

“She won’t do anything,” Lily glares back. “Nobody will.”

“Nobody ever does,” Corbett agrees. “Guys call each other ‘fag’ all the time here. And not even because of being gay. If you act too much like a girl, you’re gonna get called a fag.”

“Are you serious?” Dean asks.

“Fag, homo, queer--” Corbett ticks off on his fingers

“Dyke, lezzie, rug-muncher--” Lily continues.

“Cocksucker, pillow biter--”

“Wow, okay,” Charlie stands. “Slur 101 is over.”

“Guys,” Dean lets out a long sigh, not even sure of what to say. All of those things and so many more have come out of his mouth at one point, covered in the thick stink of fear and anger. He doesn’t know that he would have stopped if someone had called him on it, either. Who’s to say these kids would stop?

“What did you do?” asks Corbett. “When people said that stuff to you?”

“Nobody ever said that to me,” Dean shakes his head.

“Figures,” Lily scoffs. “You look like a typical meat-and-potatoes heterosexual.”

“No, no one ever said it to me ‘cause I was the one saying it to them,” says Dean. “The only person who ever said it to me--”

Shit.

He shouldn’t be talking about this.

But now it’s out there and he’s got these kids and Gabe and Charlie on the hook and, shit, “The only place I ever got it was at home, all right? So, I doled it out to everyone else. That’s what bullies do.”

“You were one of those guys?” Maggie asks, her voice wrought with disappointment.

“But you’re not anymore,” Corbett amends.

“I--no,” Dean shakes his head. “Not anymore, but. That’s a recent development. Thing is, once you’re an adult and there’s no one left to bully, it’s all gotta go somewhere. Usually you just turn it on yourself, which is kinda funny, since you’re the one you were trying to protect from those things in the first place.”

At everyone’s solemn looks, he adds, “Not funny ‘ha-ha’, but… funny.”

He takes in a shaky breath, and it’s then he realizes that he’s about to start crying.

Great.

However, to his surprise, he feels Gabriel’s arm drape over his shoulder and give him a comforting squeeze.

“Safe space, man,” he says. “You’re all right.”

Dean nods and takes a second to compose himself.

“What about you, Mr. Dickinson?”

“What about me?” asks Gabriel.

“Did you ever get harassed like that?” one of the students leans forward.

“Constantly,” Gabriel nods. “I played trumpet in a youth orchestra. That alone will get you a whole heap of torment. Got beat up when I was younger; then I learned how to fight and people generally left me alone.”

“How did you get through it?” Corbett asks.

Gabriel sighs and hangs his head.

“All right, this is only because I believe in being honest,” he says. “I’m going to treat you all like the competent, capable young adults that you are and tell you… Drugs. A _lot_ of them. It is not an effective coping mechanism and I do not endorse it. I’m lucky I’m alive today.”

“Dude, you’re a _teacher_ ,” Maggie’s eyes go big.

“And a human being,” Gabriel reminds her. “I got my life together… sort of. Enough. You pick yourself up, take a deep breath, dust yourself, and start all over again.”

“Isn’t that Nat King Cole?”

“You’re telling me you little twerps don’t know Kurt Cobain, but you’ve got Nat King Cole in your back pockets?”

It’s Charlie who starts laughing first. She tries to cover it up, but it’s too late, and soon Dean and Gabriel are laughing too.

“Well, I had a much less exciting coping mechanism,” Charlie catches her breath. “But, I did become a pretty good dungeon master as a result.”

“Of course you did,” Gabriel sighs, and that’s when the kids start laughing too.

God, Dean would have killed for friends like this when he was in high school. Hell, he would have settled for just having friends. Maybe things wouldn’t have been so difficult then.

After all, it’s only because of Gabriel and Charlie that he even got comfortable with this stuff in the first place, and not just because they’re both great friends. Gabriel unwittingly brought his dorky brother into Dean’s life.

Dean owes Castiel a lot, but it could be that he owes Gabriel even more.

“Man, fuck those guys,” Gabriel slides off the table and walks up to Charlie’s whiteboard.

“What are you doing?” asks Charlie as Gabe uncaps a marker.

The word ‘ _CONDOM ROSES’_ forms in big red dry erase letters.

“What the hell are condom roses, and why would you write that on my whiteboard?”

“No, it’s a thing,” says Gabriel, a fire in his eyes that Dean has only seen on a few occasions. “I was looking on the internet and I found out that you can make roses out of condoms. All you need are some pipe cleaners, some green crafting tape, and condoms.”

“Why would anyone ever need to make those?” Dean can feel himself making a face.

“Well, first of all, it’s hilarious and everyone should do it, so shut your cakehole,” Gabriel says. “And second of all, if that crappy committee is gonna sell flowers, I say we sell flowers. Flowers that will actually be of use and, god willing, stave off a new wave of STIs and teen parents. Thoughts?”

Charlie smiles, “I actually love that idea.”

“What if we did something that week before and after school?” Lily suggests. “Sell condoms, lube, dental dams… anything people might need. We can sell it and put it in our club fund.”

“Safe sex booth!” Charlie throws her hands in the air. “Oh, we’ve taught you well, young padawans. I love this.”

“Me too,” Dean nods, “That’s a really great idea.”

“What do you think, should we have a brainstorming sesh tomorrow at lunch?” asks Charlie.

The kids all agree, the melancholy of the room long gone and replaced by something calmer. Dean can’t quite grasp what it is, since he feels a little like he’s been exposed, but it’s a good feeling. It’s the kind of thing he feels after a good session with Garth.

Relief, maybe.

It’s then that Corbett comes up to him, shy and timid as he is, and says, “I’m glad you shared Mr. Winchester.”

“Oh… thanks,” Dean says.

“You’re really cool,” Corbett smiles at him. “I think it’s awesome that people can change, even when they’re adults. It kinda makes everything seem a little less crummy.”

Dean smiles back and pats him on the shoulder, “You’re a good egg, Corbett.”

The door to the room opens. It goes unnoticed by all until Maggie lets out a groan.

“Ed, this is a closed meeting,” she says. “You can’t just barge in.”

“Everyone’s welcome in GSA, Maggie,” Gabriel reminds her. “Even gawky tone deaf kids with no rhythm.”

Dean looks back, only to have Gabriel explain, “He was in beginning band as a freshman. Do not ask me to relive it.”  

When Dean turns back around, he notices Corbett has lost all interest in him and is now solely focused on Ed.

“You took my math folder instead of yours.”

“Oh, good, maybe you’ll actually pass an assignment, then,” Maggie shoots back.

“Shut up,” Ed snaps. “What the hell are you doing at GSA anyway?”

“What’s it to you, jerk?”

Most interesting of all comes when Ed looks up and sees Corbett looking at him.

Yeah, Corbett’s got the lovesick puppy thing down pat, but Ed is--Dean can’t quite read it.

The bell rings and students start to shuffle. Before Corbett can leave, Dean asks, “You ever gonna say anything?”

“To Ed?” Corbett’s voice cracks, Ed and Maggie both now out the door.

“Dude, you’ve been pining all year,” Dean says.

“Yeah, but,” Corbett looks at his feet. “What if he flips?”

“What if he doesn’t?” Dean poses, and shrugs when Corbett looks back up at him. “Just a thought.”

Corbett nods, “Right. Thanks, Mr. Winchester.”

And as soon as he’s gone, he has the abrasive voice of one Gabriel Dickinson in his ear, “For papa make him a scholar, for mama make him rich as a king--”

“No,” Dean says, but it’s too late, because then Charlie joins in and they sing.

“ _Me, well, I wouldn’t holler if he were as handsome as anything!”_

He has to walk halfway back to his classroom with Gabriel singing by his side, _“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find, catch me a catch!”_

Fucking lunatic.

**oo**

“Uh, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean looks up to see Ed Zeddmore standing in the doorway to his office. It’s after school on a Friday--no self-respecting kid is still around of their own free will. Hell, Dean’s only here because he’s got grades due next week and he wants to get a jump on them.

“Hey, Ed,” he greets. “What’s up?”

Ed’s only response is to shut the door behind him.

Goddamn it.

“Look, dude, you can only make your case for German silent horror flicks so many times before you realize it’s just not worth it.”

“It’s not about that,” says Ed, an edge to his voice that Dean’s never heard. “You were at that GSA meeting yesterday.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean sets down his pencil and sits back in his chair. His heart beats wildly on Corbett’s behalf. Christ, when did he become this invested in his students’ affairs? “Ed, are you okay? You seem a little off.”

“I’m fine,” Ed can’t look up. “Um, I just… I had to talk to someone and I didn’t know who.”

“You’re not really playing ‘fine’ all that well,” says Dean.

“It’s about Corbett,” Ed blurts. “Alan, I mean--Alan Corbett--Me, and… me and Corbett.”

“Are you having a stroke?” Dean asks.

“No,” Ed shakes his head a little too violently.

“Whoa, dude, take it easy,” Dean stands and guides him to the rickety chair in the corner. “You need any water? Mr. LaFitte keeps cold water stocked in his mini fridge.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Ed shakes his head and promptly folds over to press his face into his knees.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Dean reaches out and pats him on the back. It’s a little awkward, but it’s the best Dean can muster for a kid he’s never really cared for one way or the other. He’s kind of a douche, hangs out with douchey kids, but he’s got a love for film that shines through in his assignments.

“I just--” Ed’s throat clicks closed. “Yesterday, after school.”

Ed sits up only far enough to bury his face in his hands.

“He, um… we--”

“Dude, spit it out,” Dean claps him on the back.

“He likes me,” Ed finally manages to say, and Dean sighs. He doesn’t even have the energy to pretend to be surprised. Still, Ed clarifies, “Like, like-likes me.”

“Say ‘like’ again.”

Ed makes a noise of frustration instead.

“Look, dude,” Dean leans back on his desk, giving Ed some space. “You don’t have to like him back, but you can’t be a dick about it.”

“That’s not the problem,” Ed moans and looks up. His glasses are askew, his eyes are fixed high on opposite the wall. “What the hell am I s’posed to do if I think I might like him too?”

… oh.

“Huh,” is all Dean can say. “That’s a little more outta my wheelhouse. You came to me about a girl, that woulda been one thing, but.”

“You were at GSA, though,” Ed looks up.

“Doesn’t mean I know how to pick up on sixteen year old guys, Ed,” Dean folds his arms. “Which is good news for everyone, if you ask me.”

“That’s gross,” Ed wrinkles his nose.

“I only dated girls when I was your age, dude,” says Dean. “And the one time a guy did come onto me, I broke his nose. I’m not exactly the poster boy for handling problems well.”

Ed just stares at Dean, so he continues, “I’m not perfect, man.”

“You broke a guy’s nose for coming onto you?”

“Man, is there an echo in here?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I accidentally broke a guy’s nose because he came onto me at the wrong time. I was a kid and kids are by and large idiots. Present company included.”

“Wow, thanks,” Ed snarks back. “You really put it all in perspective. Man, people always say you’re cool to talk to. How come I get you on the day you’re a total dick?”

Dean raises his eyebrows, and Ed only just seems to realize what he said. He looks at Dean, eyes wide behind his thick glasses, and says, “I’m really sorry. That came out bad.”

"No way it coulda come out good," Dean sighs. "Look, the best I can give you is just... Not to be like me, all right?"

"No kidding," Ed mutters.

"Hey, I'm serious," says Dean. "Cause you know what really sucks? Being thirty-two, depressed, and emotionally stunted. All right? It blows, dude. If I'd even been able to admit to liking a guy when I was your age, I woulda been a hell of a lot better off.”

“But I don’t like guys,” Ed explains. “I just… kinda like Corbett. He’s cute y’know?”

Dean grimaces, and then has to apologize, “Sorry, it’s a knee jerk reaction. Ed, you can’t take this lightly, all right? Corbett really likes you.”

“I know,” Ed groans.

“And it’s not fair to him to string him along,” Dean continues. Hey, that actually sounds like good advice.

“I _know_ ,” Ed fists his hands in his hair. “I’m just…”

He falters, so Dean supplies, “Scared?”

Ed nods.

“That’s okay, man,” Dean shrugs. “We all get scared, all right? That never goes away. But if I can tell you anything, it’s that being scared of this makes about as much sense as being afraid of your own shadow. It doesn’t really help when no one comes along to tell you there’s nothing to be afraid of, though. What can I say? Being queer is tough.”

“Whoa, queer?” Ed throws up his hands.

“Yes, Ed, queer,”

“I’m not queer,” Ed defends. “I like girls. And Corbett.”

“Yeah, ‘bisexual’ falls under the larger ‘Queer’ umbrella, as far as I understand,” Dean raises an eyebrow yet again.

“I don’t like all guys though.”

“Neither does anyone who likes guys, Ed!” Dean exclaims. “Have you seen some of us? We’re disgusting.”

Ed is becoming more and more nonverbal by the minute, opting to communicate through a series of tired grunts and whines. Dean’s not sure how, but _somehow_ Ed winds up face down on the floor. It’s really a stunning performance; no wonder he gets along so well with Harry Spangler.

“I don’t wanna be bisexual,” Ed mutters into the floor.

“I’m sure you didn’t want to be a redhead either, but here we are.”

Ed looks up only to glare, but still accepts Dean’s hand when he offers it. Up off the floor and back in his chair, Dean can see the utter desperation on Ed’s face. So, Dean pulls up his desk chair and takes a seat right next to him.

“Look, people like us? We get the shaft,” Dean explains, firing on only a half-formed thought. “Hell, when I was a kid, I don’t even think I knew bisexual was a thing, y’know? I liked girls, I’d always liked girls, and I slept with a lot of girls. For a long time, I didn’t even realize that I looked at guys the same way I looked at girls, ‘cause when you like both it’s a hell of a lot easier to pretend you only like one, especially if you don’t _want_ to like the other.”

Christ, where the hell did that come from? He’s only had two sessions with Garth and somehow he’s managed to wriggle his way into Dean’s brain already and jostle some stuff loose.

“Man, talk about word vomit, huh?” Dean gives a borderline desperate chuckle. “See? You don’t wanna have all this stuff pent up inside you when you’re older. Otherwise you wind up,” Dean looks around his bleak little office. “Well, you wind up here. I don’t know a lot about you, but I know enough to know you don’t want that.”

Ed sniffs and gives a jerky nod, “Thanks, Mr. Winchester.”

“No problem, man,” Dean pats him on the shoulder. “Just… go with your gut. As long as your gut doesn’t tell you to be a douche, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Seriously, though. I know why everyone comes to you now. Thank you.”

“Hey,” Dean shrugs. “Anytime, kid.”

When Dean meets up with Cas in the parking lot later that afternoon, he knows he’s wearing a big doofy smile. Cas doesn’t even ask, just pulls Dean in by the front of his t-shirt and kisses the lips right off his face.

They pull apart, still close enough that their breath mingles between them.

“Hey there, smiley boy,” Cas pecks him on the lips for good measure. “Good day?”

“Mm, crappy day,” Dean grins back, threading his fingers through the soft hair on Cas’ nape. “Ended nice, though.”

“Aw,” Cas pats him on the cheek. “I like ending my day with you too, Dean.”

“I meant I had a good talk with a kid today,” Dean nips Cas on the nose. “Not everything’s about you, y’know.”

Cas sags at that.

Ah, crap.

Dean wraps him up in his arms and pulls him in closer. It’s exactly the kind of mushy nonsense that Dean despises, but he’s riding far too high to care. He kisses Cas again, longer and slower, and murmurs for only him to hear, “I _do_ like ending my day with you.”

Cas’ crestfallen face brightens in an instant, his pout turning to a smirk all too easily as he nods, “Yeah, I know.”

**oo**

What Dean does not like is waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, his heart pounding so hard that it hurts--actually hurts--as he tries to get a grip. He’s safe, he’s in his bed with Cas sleeping less than a breath away from him.

A look over at the clock beside his bed reveals that he’s been asleep for nearly three hours, and he still feels like he’s been running from a psycho in a cheap slasher flick.

Dean sits up and scrubs his hands over his face. There’s no dream fresh in his mind, but there is dad. Not anything in particular, not his face or his imposing physical presence, but it’s definitely dad.

“Dean?”

Damn it.

“Hey, baby,” Dean stifles a yawn. “It’s all good. Go back to sleep.”

“No,” Cas sits up too. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Dean stretches out his arms, testing the feeling of blood pumping through his muscles.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs, then throws the blanket aside. He’s got some Valium left; that’ll at least get him through the night. He can deal with whatever the hell this is later. Right now, all he wants is to curl back up and sleep until he’s fully recharged.

At least tomorrow is Saturday.

Pills in his belly, Dean comes back to bed. Apparently, Baron thinks it’s his job to keep Dean’s side warm. Dean hefts him up and replaces him at the foot of the bed and slides back up beside Cas.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Cas murmurs, sleepiness lacing his voice.  

“Yeah, took some of the good stuff,” Dean yawns. “Don’t wake me up unless the building is on fire.”

“You got it.”

**oo**

There’s still tightness in his chest when he wakes up.

When Cas asks today if he’s all right, Dean nods and willingly tags along on Cas’ trip to the used bookstore.

He forgets his anxiety for a whole five minutes when he finds the movie section.

**oo**

By the time Monday rolls around, Dean is beat to hell and back. He’s tired, after not having slept right the entire weekend. Even after Cas gave him want could have quite possibly been the greatest blowjob Dean had ever received, he still couldn’t quite settle.

He sees Garth again this week; maybe he’ll know what’s up.

Circumstances being what they are, Dean shuffles into school with a giant cup of extra-strong black coffee in his hand and a prayer for strength in his heart.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” asks Cas as they sign in up in the front office.

“Dude, no offense, but if you ask me that again I’m gonna lose my mind,” Dean rubs his eyes.

“Dean,” Cas implores, but Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. He needs to charge up before classes start, or he’ll never hear the end of it from Dorothy. _We set the model for our students, Winchester._

These kids better hope they pick a better model than him, that’s for fucking sure.

When they get to Cas’ classroom, Dean groans internally. A quiet classroom and a nosy boyfriend. That doesn’t sound like a good combination. And Christ, Cas is relentless too.

How many times can he tell Cas that, if he knew what the hell was wrong, he would be happy to share?

“I think I’m gonna go see if Benny needs help,” says Dean. “Setting up for his first period class and everything.”

Cas’ brow furrows, but he nods, “All right. I’ll see you at break, right?”

Ugh, great. Now Cas _knows_ how annoyed Dean is.

“Yeah, man,” Dean says. Now he sounds even more annoyed.

This day needs to be over already and it hasn’t even started yet.  

He lets Cas peck him on the cheek, though. He knows Cas isn’t being annoying on purpose, and that it’s not even his fault that Dean is so annoyed to begin with. Being mean to him right now would be like kicking a puppy.

All he wants is for Dean to be okay, and Dean can’t begrudge him that.

“Thanks,” Dean sighs. “Have a good day.”

“You too.”

**oo**

Dean musters up enough of a good attitude to get him through the day with a smile on his face, forced though it may be. Gabriel saves him during break and at lunch, distracting Cas enough that Dean doesn’t have to talk at all.

In fact, apart from barking at his students during their Monday mile run, he doesn’t say a goddamned thing. He doesn’t even talk before he starts his movie in third period.

He doesn’t speak to anyone until he’s on his way to sign out for the day. He does take the long route, just to make sure nobody (namely Andy Gallagher) is smoking out behind the gym. The route takes him through the courtyard, where he sees Corbett and Charlie at their little condom-and-Valentine co-op. Dean fully intends on walking by them, but--

“Dean!” Charlie all too excitedly calls, only to correct herself a second later. “Mr. Winchester, I mean. You didn’t hear that Corbett.”

Dean rolls his eyes and drags his sorry ass over to their table.

“Some mighty fine wares you’re peddlin’,” he says.

“Thank god,” Charlie stands, her thighs squished tightly together. “There has to be a supervising teacher and I had two Snapples at lunch.”

“Dude, go!” Dean waves her off, chuckling for the first time that day as he watches her dash across the courtyard. He turns back to Corbett and, what the hell, he can sit for a little while with the kid.

“How’s it goin’, bud?” he asks.

“All right, I guess,” Corbett shrugs. “The dance committee is getting way more bites than we are.”

“Yeah,” Dean shoves his hands in his warm sweater pockets. “That’s probably because no one knows you’re selling condoms. Soon as you get one, you’ll get a whole bunch.”

“I don’t know,” Corbett looks over across the courtyard. There’s a small group gathered around the dance committee’s Valentine’s table.

“Well, you can take comfort in the fact that most of those kids are gonna end up being total dicks later in life.”

Corbett lets out all too big a laugh at that.

“What?” Dean finds himself laughing too. “Something I said?”

“You’re a teacher,” says Corbett.

“I swear all the time in film,” Dean shrugs.

“I meant, aren’t you supposed to be all about our potential to be all that we can be?” Corbett’s smile remains, so Dean shrugs yet again.

“It’s after 3:15, I’m a plain ol’ civilian now,” he says. “Listen, I don’t wanna bullshit you, okay? I hated when adults did that to me and I think it’s kinda insulting, to tell you the truth. A lot of your classmates are gonna grow up to be unremarkable.”

“Wow,” Corbett grimaces. “I think I’d kind of rather have you bullshit me.”

“Look,” Dean turns to face him. “It’s one thing to want your life to go a certain way. I’ve been told ambition is healthy. But there’s a big difference between ambition and expectation. You’re always working toward one, but you just assume you’re gonna get the other.”

Goddamn, he is on a fucking _roll_ lately.

But then Corbett’s attention is quickly deterred, and he blurts out, “Hi Ed,” with that doofy fucking look on his face.

Dean looks up too, and at the sight of Ed fidgeting with the straps of his backpack, says, “Heya, Ed.”

“Oh,” Ed startles, as though he’s just seeing Dean for the first time. “Hi, Mr. Winchester.”

“We’re selling valentines,” Corbett explains quickly. “And, um. Condoms.”

Ed’s fair eyebrows raise over his thick glasses, “Oh, damn.”

Dean sees Charlie returning from across the courtyard, smoothing the wrinkles out of her trousers, oblivious to the little lovefest she’s about to destroy. Dean lifts his wrist to check his non-existant watch.

“Well, would you look at the time,” he says, and makes a mad dash from his seat to Charlie.

“Ow! Dean, what the hell!” Charlie yelps when Dean pulls her behind a large concrete pillar.

“Running interference,” says Dean. “And getting the hell out of the way before I cockblocked Corbett.”

Charlie peers around the pillar, and, what the hell, Dean does too. Ed is writing something down.

“Holy crapsicles,” Charlie whispers. “Someone’s buying our valentines.”

“Christ,” Dean grumbles.

“Why are we hiding?”

Dean and Charlie both jump out of their skin at Cas just _appearing_ right behind them. He’s about as ready to leave as Dean is, or was.

“Young love,” Charlie whispers back and points.

Cas squints to get a better look, so Dean explains, “Corbett’s got a major hard-on for that kid.”

“Oh,” Cas nods and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m going to sign out. You want me to do you too?”

“Yes, please,” Dean nods, too engrossed to care.

As Cas continues his walk to the main office, Ed folds up the paper then and slides it across the table to Corbett. He then takes off in the other direction like he’s going for the gold medal in avoidance.

Charlie squeals and comes out immediately from their hiding spot. Dean follows close behind, stopping just short of smacking into her once they get to the table.

Corbett just stares at the piece of paper, his cheeks bright red and his smile even doofier than usual.

“Dude,” Dean prompts him.

Corbett looks up at them and turns the paper.

_‘movie on friday? just me and you.’_

**oo**

Dean rides so high on the way back to Cas’ that he ends up stopping not only for groceries, but also for a well-deserved pre-made supermarket pecan pie. Nothing lives up to his mom’s, or even Gabriel’s, but successful students mean successful teachers, and successful teachers get success pies.

He breezes through making dinner--a whole roasted chicken and baked macaroni and cheese, complete with a bacon lattice top.

“Good god, what is that?” Cas asks as Dean weaves together raw pieces of bacon atop the bubbly cheese.

“Heaven,” Dean replies. He’s still kind of peeved at him, but the cooking is helps.

“A marvelous victory feast indeed,” Cas confirms and kisses him on the cheek.

“Man,” Dean chuckles. “I can’t even imagine.”

“What?” Cas asks, sitting at his rickety little dining table.

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “Doing what Ed did. Hell, doing what Corbett’s been doing. At their age? Would not have jived.”

“With your dad?”

“With anything, man,” Dean shrugs, popping the macaroni dish back into the oven. That feeling from Friday night creeps back up, poking its head out from its hiding spot and hoping this is its time to rise again.

“Dean?” Cas rises again, closing the space between them.

“Dude, sixteen, seventeen?” Dean has to shake his head to keep his mind from going back there. “That was just… I can’t talk about it right now.”

He’ll cry if he does. He doesn’t tell Cas that, but it’s not something he needs to say; his voice has already betrayed him. Right now, all he wants is macaroni and a fucking hug, but Cas isn’t coming toward him. He’s got his thinking face on, with that analytical stare raking over every inch of Dean.

“Dean, it doesn’t get better if you don’t talk about it.”

Something inside Dean’s mind cracks like a whip.

“What the fuck, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean scowls. Behind his initial discomfort rises a hot cloud of Dean doesn’t know what.

“I know, but that doesn’t fix anything,” Cas explains, his words slicing through the air between them. Dean cracks his knuckles, but says nothing. Cas continues, “I know you don’t like talking, Dean, but I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t want your fucking help, Cas!” Dean shouts back. The cloud grows taller, thicker, until it leaves a red-hot haze in front of Dean’s eyes. The last little sane part of him begs him to back out and reign it in, but it’s quickly squashed when Cas’ shoulders square and his eyes go cold.

“Dean,” he warns, but Dean is too fired up to care.

“Christ, and you know what? You’re one to talk,” he continues.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been trying to get you to talk for the last month and a half, Cas!” Dean shouts. “When the hell do we get to fix you?”

“That’s not the same thing, Dean.”

“Why not?” Dean shrugs. “Gotta talk about it if you wanna start healing, right?”

“I’m trying to help you, Dean,” Cas’ voice goes low, hard.

“Well, stop!” Dean’s pretty sure one of Cas’ elderly neighbors is a second away from calling the cops. “I’m not a fucking project to work on.”

“You’re my partner,” Cas explains, his voice still quiet. “It’s my job to--”

“To what?” Dean demands. “Last time I checked, you teach high school history. You’re not my fucking therapist. You’re my boyfriend.”

“Ha!” Cas barks. “Don’t be too sure.”

Every empty space inside Dean fills with molten lead.

“Oh, really,” Dean challenges him back. He’s bluffing. He’s bluffing so hard.

“If you want to wallow in your own misery, fine,” Cas declares. “It’s your funeral.”

Dean goes from burning to ice cold, but he nods, “Great. Well, glad to know I’m just another one of your failed projects.”

He turns off the oven and pushes past Cas. He doesn’t even stop to put on his shoes, just grabs them and his bag and opens up the door.

“Be sure to drown your problems in a lot of alcohol!” Cas calls after him.

“Well, if I wind up dead in a ditch, at least we’ll know who to blame,” Dean shouts back, halfway into the hallway. “At least then you’ll be two for two with dead exes.”

“Fuck you!” Cas finally shouts.

“Same to you, buddy,” Dean hoists his bag over his shoudler and slams the door behind him.

 


	16. Feel It and Show It

Dean knows he’s not wrong.

Dean knows that it’s dumb to keep checking his phone for a message he knows he’ll never get.

Dean also knows that it’s going to be mind-bendingly awkward to navigate work when trying to avoid a coworker he’s slept with.

Sam and Jess tell him that arguments are normal. You have to be expressive, otherwise your emotions get all bottled up and you can explode in a murderous rage. Dean informs them that he does not have an emotional problem, then stomps back to his room and slams the door behind himself.

Not his best moment.

He flops onto his bed and stares up at his ceiling. There’s a spare pair of reading glasses on the windowsill by his head, and an empty mug of tea that Dean hadn’t cleared away after yesterday’s lazy Sunday morning.

If this were anyone else, it might be easy to swallow the argument and pretend it didn’t happen. In fact, being that it is still Dean’s preferred non-ingestible coping mechanism, it’s entirely how he’d planned on handling this. He’d already started talking himself out of his relationship with Cas, already started constructing the how and the why of their inevitable breakup. All he had to do now was pack it up and stow it where no one would ever be able to find it.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how big of a box he constructed, Castiel wouldn’t fit inside it. Because it’s not just Cas--it’s everything about him. It’s his calming tone and his unfairly cool car; it’s his space tattoo and his doofy grin; it’s knowing that, without Cas, he’d still be accidentally picking up prostitutes in seedy bars.

Without Cas, he would still hate all these parts of himself that he’s sort of starting to accept.

Knowing Cas actually made him change; he's made him better.

Why, of all things, that sends tears pouring down his face, he can’t say. The white hot iron in his gut cools, weighing so heavy that it rips out of his body and leaves nothing but a gaping hole in its place.

Dean knows what it’s like to feel nothing, though; he spent a good chunk of his twenties all but numb.

This isn’t nothing, this isn’t numbing. Dean can feel the air stinging the raw nerves around the hole in his middle, can feel the hot the raw the cold the nothing and the everything and it doesn’t feel right.

The kicker? He wants to grab his phone and call Cas, because, were this any other circumstance, Cas would know what to say. He would pull Dean into an embrace that he in no way deserves, kiss him on the temple, and spout out wisdom that feels as old as the universe itself, because that’s just what Cas does.

That weird nothing-everything aches profoundly, and Dean has to curl in on himself just to take a little of the edge off.

“Dean?” comes the clear bell of Jess’ voice. She doesn’t open the door, but Dean can see the shadow of her feet by the crack under the door.

“Yeah?” he tries to keep his voice as even as possible.

“This little uterus monster is telling me to put burgers in my belly,” she says. “Will you come with us, please?”

“Where’re you going?” Dean asks despite not being hungry, like at all.

Oh boy, that’s not a good sign.

“I don’t know yet,” Jess replies. “I just know that red meat and cheese and pickles will be involved.”

Dean wants to smile, but that’s something his body won’t allow right now. Regardless, he sits up and wipes his face. As much as he doesn’t feel like being around people, he knows that sitting here by himself while Sam and Jess go get dinner is only going to make him feel worse.

Honestly, he doesn’t have the energy to be this pissed off right now.

Dean opens up his bedroom door, finding Jess smiling softly on the other side. She gets up on her tip-toes and pulls Dean into a hug. Her bump gets in the way just a little bit--not enough to make her unhuggable, thankfully.

She presses a kiss to his forehead and rests her hands on his shoulders.

“I’ve told Sam he’s not allowed to grill you,” she whispers.

Dean lets out an audible sigh of relief.

Anger dialed down to a simmer for the time being, Dean decides to allow himself the luxury of trying to forget all that he can, if only for an evening.

**oo**

After a long night of no sleep, Dean drags ass into the teacher’s lounge the following morning with a cup of crappy coffee and little to no will to live through the day. He’d spent the drive to work wondering just how awful it would be to careen off of the freeway and into the surrounding long stretch of dry mountainside. Though he knows these thoughts were far from life-threatening--more brain teasers than actual planning--he did notice himself weaving through traffic a touch too recklessly.

Ugh, he has to tell Garth about that, doesn’t he?

“Dean-o,” Gabriel greets from where he’s perched on the back of a chair, obviously deep in conversation with Lucifer until just now. Dean gives him a wave, but doesn’t know whether or not he should join them.

After all, Gabriel is both Castiel’s brother and fucking terrifying once he’s chosen sides in an argument. Given the former, Dean is almost one hundred percent sure where he’d stand with regard to the latter.

“Hey, fellas,” Dean decides to greet, then tops off his crappy coffee with even crappier coffee. He turns and walks right back out of the lounge, deciding he’s in no mood to pretend he’s anything but out of sorts.

So of course he has to turn down the hall at the exact moment that Castiel is coming from the front office.

All at once his nerves re-fray, as though this morning’s Xanax and last night’s impromptu fun had never even happened. His heart punches against his ribs, so hard he can feel it in his throat, and god, he can’t move. He can’t even think about moving. And yet, Castiel keeps walking, like he doesn’t even realize that Dean is there.

Then Castiel walks right past him, without so much as a hello, or even a nod--no acknowledgement whatsoever.

It squashes the breath right out of Dean’s chest.

He should run after him, right? He should follow Cas to his classroom and lock the door and--

Dean is pretty sure he meant to think about apologizing, but the only scenario that plays out upstairs is him charging into Cas’ room and demanding to know what the fuck his problem is, because really?

Ignoring him.  

That’s Castiel’s master tactic. Find the problem and pretend it’s not there. Dean isn’t exactly the pinnacle of mental health, but he knows for damn sure that that’s not in the least bit helpful.

So, Dean pivots and stalks right back to Castiel’s classroom, opening the door and slamming it shut behind him. The disturbance is so loud that it sends Cas’ hand flying across the whiteboard, the word ‘Agenda’ interrupted halfway through by a tail of dry erase marker.

“Okay,” Dean throws down his bag, holding out his arms. “Talk to me.”

Castiel downright glares at him.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says. “And even if there were, I don’t think I would feel up for discussing it right now.”

Cas turns back to the board, erasing his mistake and continuing his task.

“No,” Dean snaps and stalks right up to the front of the room. “No, you don’t get to ignore me just because you’re pissed.”

“I’m not ignoring you, Dean,” Castiel replies very evenly. “I’m just not engaging before I have to spend the next seven and a half hours trying to jam history into a bunch of teenage brains.”

“So, you’re not even gonna try,” Dean nods. “Awesome. Good to know we’re fifty/fifty in this, partner.”

“Dean, will you please stow your passive aggressive bullshit?” Castiel sighs. “I’m very tired. As you can imagine, I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Oh, and why would that be?” Dean asks.

“Not engaging,” Castiel reminds him. “Now, if your only interest is to pick a fight, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight, dick!” Dean all but shouts. “At least I wasn’t, but you’re pissin’ me right the fuck off, Cas.”

“Terrific,” Castiel nods. Dean can see the tendons in his neck straining as he tries not to yell, “Please go be pissed somewhere else. May I suggest your own office?”

There’s nothing that Dean can do. With his walls up, Cas is damn near impenetrable. Dean would be impressed if his vision wasn’t steadily narrowing to a red-hot point.

As much as he wants to slam the door, he knows he can’t. So, he takes a deep breath, gingerly shuts it, and walks to his office as normally as he can muster. The door doesn’t even shut all the way before Dean chucks his duffel at the wall and shouts, “God DAMN it!”

So, of course, Benny has to poke his head in.

“You all right, brother?” he asks, just as Dean rests his forehead on his office’s spiky stucco wall.

“Polar opposite of all right, actually,” he replies.

There’s a long bout of silence before Benny speaks up again, “Still pretty early. I could round up the gals, blow off some steam before school starts.”

Which is how Dean finds himself out on the soccer field, desperately trying to keep a soccer ball in line and away from Benny and Jo. Soccer’s not his best sport, but it’s not really a game you play very well with four people anyway. It’s more of a bonding exercise than anything.

Plus, it gets that great big gloomy feeling out of his chest.

Dean doesn’t know how long they’re playing, but it’s long enough for Dorothy to tell him to get his head out of his ass and cover Benny like he’s supposed to. It’s also long enough for a couple of seniors, none of whom Dean recognizes from his classes,  to join in the game.

Apparently these seniors are on Dorothy’s varsity soccer team. At least, that’s what Dean tells himself when they start kicking his ass. They could be chess club shut-ins for all Dean knows. Either way, they’re un-Americanly good at soccer.

By the time the warning bell rings, Dean is sweaty and out of breath, but much looser. He tries to settle back on Cas, but his brain doesn’t let him. Endorphins pump through him, filling him and propelling him forward.

Maybe he’ll be able to get through the day after all.

**oo**

Cas doesn’t text, doesn’t call, all through Tuesday night and into Wednesday morning. Dean supposes it’s to give the two of them some time to cool off, but all it does is piss Dean off even more.

By Thursday, Cas is done ignoring him. However, the first thing he chooses to say, or ask, rather, is, “Can you pass me the milk when you’re done?”

And because he does this in the faculty lounge, Dean can’t tell him to go fuck himself, because really? Instead, Dean has to settle on slamming down the milk carton as forcefully as he can, which unfortunately draws attention to them anyway.

It’s too early for this.

Dean spends the rest of the day in a crappy mood, and it’s made even worse by the fact that Garth has to reschedule their appointment from this afternoon to Saturday morning.

“I’m real sorry,” says Garth. “I know it’s sudden, but--”

“No, it’s fine, man,” Dean glowers into his lunch. “I’ll see you Saturday. No big deal.”

He hangs up and buries his face in his hands. It’s getting harder and harder to keep it together. His coping mechanisms may be improving, but that doesn’t mean that a few fingers of whiskey wouldn’t be fucking amazing right now.

There’s a knock on his door, and before he can think better, he bids, “Come in.”

The door opens to Gabriel, of all people. He slips into Dean’s office and shuts the door behind him. There’s no smile on his face, not even a hint of laughter in his eyes as he takes a seat in the spare chair in the corner.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

Dean, deciding to be a contemptuous little shit, replies, “With what?”

“Don’t fuck with me right now, you creep,” Gabriel shakes his head. “Cas has been acting weird all week. He won’t talk to me, so I figured you’d know.”

“Me!?” Dean barks a laugh. “He doesn’t tell me jack shit."

Gabriel sighs, as though his worst fears have just been confirmed.

"Yeah, he's not big on letting people shoulder his burdens, is he?" Gabriel rubs his hands over his face. "The martyrdom of Saint Castiel. Some people are burned at the stake, others are crucified, and then there’s those who torture themselves, and by association, everyone around them.”

Dean doesn’t know that he has brain power enough to make real sense out of that, but that Gabriel knows this behavior well enough to try to laugh it off? No.

“Goddamn it,” Dean mutters.

“Dean,” Gabriel sighs, but Dean cuts him off.

“No, man, I’m fuckin’ pissed!” he shouts. “He’s being a petty dick.”

“Blah-blah-blah,” Gabriel ushers it along. “Something about the pot and the kettle--you get it. You’re both being petty.”

“I tried to fucking help him!” Dean exclaims. “Ever since he got back from whatever fucking kooky alternate universe you two visited during break, I’ve been trying to talk to him about what happened, but he won’t fucking budge.”

“And despite him really needing support and love, you’re acting like a fucking three year old,” Gabriel finishes. “Petty.”

“Dude, don’t even with me,” Dean shakes his head. “I’m so fucking mad--”

“I think this entire arm of the galaxy knows you’re mad, compadre,” Gabriel folds his arms. “You’re mad, he’s mad--hell, I’m mad at the both of you. You don’t get to stop caring because you’re mad, dickweed. That’s not how it works.”

Dean groans and looks up at the ceiling.

He has to be the mature one, doesn’t he? That’s a far fucking cry from fair. How is he supposed to be the mature one when he can’t even pass a carton of milk without turning it into an Academy Award winner? Cas is the mature one. Cas always says the right thing, knows what to do, and Dean isn’t like that. Even if Cas did talk to him, he wouldn’t even have a clue as to what to say.

… damn it.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, and informs Gabriel, “I hate this.”

“Yep,” Gabriel nods and stands. “Honeymoon’s over, kid.”

Gabriel claps him on the shoulder, but where Dean expects a warning, he gets a simple, succinct, “I know you’ll take care of him. You always do.”

**oo**

Gabriel’s words rattle around in his head for the rest of the day. Fifth period, cleaning up the equipment, the impromptu department meeting about how to handle the epidemic of paper towels wadded up in the bottom of the locker room sinks, through it all, Dean can’t stop thinking about Cas.

As soon as he’s got all his stuff and he’s ready to go, he takes a chance and ventures down to history hall to see if Cas is still around. Unfortunately, the window to his room is dark and the door is locked.

“Your boy toy left a while ago,” says Crowley from his room. Dean peers in to see Crowley with a stack of papers in his lap, marking them up with great relish.

“Was he pissed?” asks Dean, figuring he’d better prepare himself.

“Well, I’m not a bloody mind-reader, am I?” Crowley doesn’t look up from his papers. “The both of you have been out of sorts lately; I figured it was something of a lovers’ quarrel.”

“Great,” Dean nods. “Super helpful.”

“Not my job to help you, duckie,” Crowley finally glances over at him. “Merely a spectator.”

Dean lets out a sigh and mumbles a quick “whatever” under his breath before he stomps out to the parking lot. Cas’ car is already gone and there’s no sign of a motorcycle.

Shit.

He tosses his duffell into the car and pulls out his phone. Still no calls or texts from Cas, which, goddamn it, adds an extra layer of ‘homicidally irate’ to what’s already a pretty anxious, pissed off… layers.

What has layers.

He’s so fucking mad, he can’t even think of a goddamned food with layers.

Dean calls Cas, and of course the picture that comes up is Cas and Baron taking a post-run nap on Dean’s bed. The picture is the very epitome of adorable and it upsets Dean even further that it’s making him smile.

“Dean?”

Why does Cas sound so surprised?

And groggy?

Dean shakes it out of his head. “I’m coming over,” he says, leaving no room for negotiation.

“Dean--”

“It doesn’t really matter, y’know, being that your dumb ass gave me a key, remember?”

“Really, Dean, I’m exhausted,” Cas pleads. “I just want to sleep. Can’t this wait?”

“If you’re that fuckin’ exhausted, you’re not gonna eat,” Dean shakes his head and slides into the front seat of his car. “And if you don’t eat, your dumb ass gonna feel worse.”

“Stop calling me a dumbass.”

“Stop being a dumbass and I’ll stop calling you one.”

“Do not come here if you’re going to be an asshole,” Cas groans. “I’m so tired.”

“Well, I’m an asshole,” Dean shrugs. “Call it a character flaw.”

“There is literally nothing else anyone would call that.”

“Fuck you,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m leaving work right now. Be there in a few.”

“Color me elated,” Cas grunts, then follows up with, “jackass” before he hangs up.

Not an ideal conversation, but it will do for now.

Dean makes the trip to Cas’ in what feels like record time, and takes the stairs two by two until he reaches Cas’ floor. He knows he’s coming up on Cas’ apartment too fast, but his legs won’t slow down. He ends up unlocking the door and tumbling into the apartment much, much sooner than he’d intended.

It’s pitch black inside… kind of. There are specks of light that poke through the venetian blinds over the windows, and a light coming from the bed, which Dean assumes is Cas’ phone, but other than that, it remains deliberately dark, and suspiciously skunky. 

“Cas?” he says cautiously as he shuts the door behind him.

“I am extraordinarily busy, Dean,” Cas declares from where he’s curled up under his bedsheets.

“Dude, were you smoking pot in here?”

“Yes, so I could fall asleep,” Cas tries to put aggression behind the words, but whatever the hell kind of high he’s riding is not allowing it. “I had hoped it would do its job before you got here.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean walks back into the kitchen to take inventory. He knows he didn’t finish his thought, but he was kind of hoping Cas would interrupt him and redirect the conversation. Cas’ food supply is about what it was on Monday, including a full dish of bacon macaroni and cheese and a whole roasted chicken under a sheet of foil.

Damn it, that probably would have been amazing out of the oven.

“What do you want for dinner?” Dean asks.

He’s met with an inaudible grumble.

“I can’t hear you, dickhead,” Dean gives a tired sigh.

“What the hell do you care?” Cas enunciates very precisely.

“Truth be told? I don’t,” Dean shrugs, checking the contents of the crisper drawer. “But I’m making you dinner either way, so it might as well be something I know you’ll eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Cas yawns, big and sleepy.

Dean shuts the fridge door, a little too harshly, and demands again, “What. do you want. for dinner. you little shit?”

“Dick.”

Dean groans as Cas chuckles softly at his own joke.

"You're eating whatever I make you," Dean reminds him. "Keep was sassing me and I promise you ain't gonna be happy about it."

Cas groans again.

"Ever had tuna casserole? Aspic? Cause that's where you're headed, buddy."

"You're very pushy," Cas notes.

"Yeah, well," Dean folds his arms over his chest. He sighs, “I’m done with this. Chicken soup and grilled cheese.”

Cas whines.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” Dean mutters, and that’s that.

Dean absorbs himself in making dinner. He shreds the entire chicken and makes stock; he chops veggies, cleans up the kitchen, and takes out the trash. This leads to him cleaning the whole kitchen, then the rest of the apartment. By no means fun tasks, but they get him out of his head, root him back in reality.

Maybe that’s not such a great thing, because in reality? Yeah, Dean is kind of a dick. A total dick, actually. He’s not good at all the talking about feelings and crap, which is why relationships never really happened for him. Or, rather, why they never happened for the women he was with. They were all versed in some ancient relationship text from on high, and Dean was some illiterate schmuck that couldn’t figure out why no one wanted to be with him.

Relationships are give and take, especially when it comes to hurt and comfort.

Dean is really good at taking comfort, but he is shit all at taking the hurt away, and Cas?

Cas is hurting.

He’s been hurting, and he won’t tell Dean why. The thought still sends Dean scrubbing hard into the stained kitchen counter, but he reminds himself that he also knows exactly what it’s like to talk about that kind of stuff. It’s revealing, the real life equivalent of the ‘went to school in my underwear’ dream. And instead of making that better, Dean decided to go ahead and make it worse.

Typical Dean Winchester.

But then again, Dean knows he’s not wrong. He just handled the situation poorly, and maybe that’s what he’s supposed to apologize for--not for being invasive and demanding, but more for not being more understanding.

He knows better.

… God, he is such a fucking dick.

By the time the soup is ready, Cas has long since been asleep. Dean has done so much around the apartment that the anger and irritation in his chest has subsided, leaving in its wake an intense longing to scoop Cas against him and hold him until he doesn’t hurt anymore.

Instead, he crouches beside the bed and cups Cas’ cheek in his hand, strokes his thumb over the edge of his eyebrow. In the few seconds it takes Cas to wake, Dean goes through a short list of what to say. He should ask how he’s feeling, probably. Tell him that dinner is ready whenever he wants it, or that he’s sorry for being an asshole.  

When Cas’ eyes open and settle on Dean, Dean can’t help but greet him with a, “Heya, handsome.”

“What’s going on?” Cas asks, somehow even groggier than before.

“Made some soup,” Dean says softly, the backs of his fingers now stroking over the fine hair on Cas’ temple. “I’ll grill you up a sandwich too, if you want.”

Cas just frowns and says, “You’re mad at me.”

“And you’re mad at me,” Dean leans forward and kisses his cheek. “I still made you soup.”

Then he can feel it: all the goings on in his chest and his head and his everywhere else converge into a set of words on the tip of his tongue, words that until this very second he didn’t realize held any meaning to him.

Words he can’t say.

He swallows them back and replaces them with, “I’m sorry.”

Cas lets out a soft sigh of relief and nods, “So am I.”  

There’s stale smoke on Cas’ breath, but Dean kisses him anyway. It’s short, though after going so long without, Dean is tempted to push him back and kiss him until their lips fall off. When he pulls back, he offers Cas a smile and asks, “Sandwich?”

Cas nods.

* * *

Mom isn’t much of a cook. As a child, when he wasn’t feeling well, it usually meant a can of soup from the pantry and a handful of goldfish. Castiel had gone for a lot of his life thinking he didn’t like chicken soup specifically because of the soggy nuclear yellow noodles and salty chunks of chicken and veggies.

Dean’s soup, though? It’s a great big bite of a hug on a cold night.

And this sandwich is nothing short of amazing.

“What is this?” Castiel asks, his mouth full of buttery bread and cheese.

“Macaroni and grilled cheese,” Dean replies, his mouth also full of the same. “It’s a grilled cheese, but I sliced up some of that cold macaroni and put that on too.”

Castiel swallows, “We should not be eating these.”

“Oh yeah, they’re fuckin’ terrible for you,” Dean agrees and takes another bite. “But if I’m gonna go out, I’m gonna go out knowing that I ate a macaroni and grilled cheese sandwich. And it’s gonna be awesome.”

It’s odd, because Castiel is fairly certain he’s still upset. On Monday and Tuesday, he’d been upset with Dean, but somewhere in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, all the blame Castiel had expelled came crashing right back down on him. 

Every bit of ire he’d spat out into the universe returned on him tenfold. Suddenly it wasn’t Dean, but him. He was the one who was trying to force Dean into healing, when healing is something that can’t be forced. Dean may have said awful things, but so had Castiel.

He watches as Dean tip back a long slurp of soup, finishing what’s in his bowl before he goes to wash his dishes in the sink. The silence between them weighs heavy, which Castiel wouldn’t mind so much normally. However, this isn’t normal. It’s the longest they’ve been upset with one another and it just does not feel right.

Castiel shifts in his seat and pushes some more heat up and out of his soup.

“Anything exciting you’re doing tomorrow with the kids?” he settles on asking. He can see Dean pause in his dishwashing, only for a moment, before he clears his throat and replies, “Not really, no.”

Another stretch of silence before Dean asks, “You got work to do tonight?”

“I have to finish grading some essays, yes,” Castiel only just now reminds himself. “Shit.”

He gulps down the rest of his dinner and grabs his bag from where it lies by the door.

“No, no, I’ll get these, absent-minded professor,” Dean says.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Castiel returns to the table with a bright blue file folder, all full of essays.

Some more legibly graded than others, but Castiel often finds himself working late into the night when he can’t sleep.

While Castiel grades, Dean cleans up dinner. He puts away leftovers and even marks the date on them so to avoid tupperware full of mold down the line. He sorts silverware, arranges the contents of the refrigerator so it’s easier to tell what Cas has and what he needs. It’s not long until Castiel gets distracted from his work once again, just by watching Dean.

Then he gets caught watching Dean, and he tries to pretend he wasn’t, but Dean is having none of that.

“What?” he asks.

“Dean,” Castiel wets his lips, trying to put the words together as best he can. “I really do hope you know how sorry I am. I said things that I shouldn’t have, and the way I treated you over the following days was… inexcusable.”

He glances up, hoping for some sign of forgiveness, or a hint of smile, but all he gets is Dean letting out a long, tired sigh.

“It’s not what you said, Cas,” he says. “Hell, I tell myself worse on my best days, all right? I don’t offend easy.”

“Oh,” Castiel feels his forehead crinkle.

“What pisses me off is that I know dick-all about what’s bothering you,” Dean says then,  and Castiel stills.

“Excuse me?”

“Man, all I know is that your ex died,” Dean rubs his hands over his face. “And I don’t wanna ask Gabriel to fill me in, because I shouldn’t have to.”

“Dean, it’s not--”

“If you tell me it’s not a big deal, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it,” Dean warns. “I don’t care if he was a piece of shit or if he did shitty things, all right? I don’t care about him; I care about you.”

Castiel’s ribcage shrinks, and there’s not enough room for his heart and his lungs and whatever it is that Dean Winchester is trying to say. He wants to reply, or at least acknowledge that he heard Dean, but his head won’t nod and his lips won’t budge.

So, Dean lets out another sigh and a tight, “Awesome.”

Castiel then watches as Dean makes a beeline right for the bathroom and slam the door behind him. A few moments pass before he hears the shower shriek on, and Castiel puts his face in his hands. God, what if Dean never forgives him? He and Dean have never been through this. Castiel doesn't know Dean's behavioral patterns post-argument, doesn't even know his regular patterns apparently. Dean has never seemed like the kind of guy who'd slam around his boyfriend's kitchen, muttering to himself in frustrated grunts and irate swears, all while making sure said boyfriend has food in his stomach.

But that's just it--Dean doesn't seem like that kind of person right away, but once he’s chosen you, you’ll have his loyalty forever.

Castiel doesn't know too many people that can boast such an astounding quality. Even when angry, Dean will still come make sure you're all right--really all right--because that's what he does. He did it with his mother and father, he does it with Sam and Jessica, even Charlie and Gabriel. For the people he loves.

... _Oh_.

Castiel doesn’t realize how spaced out he is until the bathroom door shuts, and Dean saunters out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. He watches Dean haul open the dresser drawer and extract his spare set of pajamas that he’s taken to keeping here.

Because he spends so many nights here.

With Castiel.

“Man, will you stop looking at me like I just shot you in the foot?” Dean sighs.

Castiel pushes himself up from the table and crosses the small living space until he’s right up in Dean’s personal bubble. He had planned on doing something dramatic, maybe even cinematic, like sweeping Dean up into his arms and kissing the life out of him. Instead, he just stares.

“Cas, what the hell is the matter with you?” Dean frowns, but doesn’t move away.

So, Castiel plants his hands on Dean’s shoulders and looks him dead in the eye, and says, “Thank you.”

And though he looks unsure of what exactly Cas means to be thanking him for, Dean nods, “You’re welcome.”

“And I apologize,” Castiel continues.

“Man, you already said you’re sorry,” Dean sighs.

“No, not for that,” Castiel shakes his head. “Well, for that, yes, but… I love you, Dean. And I appreciate you. Not just the things that you do, but you. I appreciate the person that you are. Outside of my family, I don’t think I’ve ever had the opportunity to love someone whom I could also appreciate, so. Thank you for being that person.”

Dean’s eyes soften, his plush lips part, and he lets out a soft breath that Castiel can feel on his skin.

“Damn it,” Dean’s voice comes out low, barely even a whisper. He rests their foreheads  together, and says again, “God fucking damn it.”

“I'm sorry. I just wanted you to know,” Castiel mutters, all prepared to pull away, only to have Dean grab his face and pull him into a kiss.

And as much as Castiel would like to pull away and say what he needs to say, he can’t. Their lips won’t separate, and one or the other guides them back down onto the bed. Castiel isn’t quite sure which of them it was, but they both let out grateful sighs.

Dean rolls on top of Castiel, ensconcing him in his limbs as he finally breaks their kiss to breathe. His eyes flitting over Castiel’s face, Dean looks like he could either laugh or cry, or maybe throw up. He licks his lips, rakes his fingers through Castiel’s hair, all while trying to control the twitch between his eyebrows.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, coming back to himself ever so slightly. Before he can speak again, Dean shakes his head. Not sure what to make of it, and sensing Dean isn’t quite sure either, he sighs and directs, “Here, sit up.”

Dean does, and Castiel arranges it so they’re kneecap to kneecap, their long legs criss-crossed in front of them. He needs to be touching Dean in some way, at the very least.

Then Castiel sighs and hangs his head.

It’s now or never.

“When I was younger, I thought that it was my job to help people,” he says. “And in a lot of ways, that’s still true. My relationship with Ephraim was… complicated. I thought that he needed someone who would understand him and make him better.”

“Oh, boy,” Dean mutters.

“Don’t talk,” Castiel instructs. “Just listen. I truly thought Ephraim’s heart was in the right place. All he ever talked about was pain, and how if he could, he would make it go away. He was broken, and I wanted to fix him, and being that I was sixteen and an idiot, I didn’t realize that people can’t fix other people. And I suppose I still forget that sometimes.”

He feels Dean’s thumb swipe through the wetness on his cheek, and he leans into the touch before he continues, “I don’t think I was surprised when I realized he was using drugs. There’s not a whole lot to do in our part of town but get into drugs. Gabriel already didn’t like him, but after that.

“He’s the reason Gabriel started using, and since I’m the reason he was ever in our lives to begin with--”

“Hey, hey,”  Dean repositions so that he can wrap Castiel up in his arms again. “It’s not your fault. I know Gabe, remember? I think he’d have fallen into drug use sooner or later.”

“Dean,” Castiel pleads.

“Right. Sorry.”  

“And it’s not just that,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t leave him. I thought I was the only person who could help him, but that was obviously not the case. When I realized that, I tried to move on--with school, with Meg, with everything. I moved across the country with no intentions of ever returning or seeing Ephraim again, which, again, obviously did not happen.”

He swallows, takes a couple of breaths.  This should not feel like an endurance run.

“Seeing him again… he was just as hurt as he’d ever been,” Castiel shuts his eyes. “But he invited me to a party and I almost--I thought I should go with him, because I knew him and I knew he was going to do something stupid. He died of a drug overdose, at a party, in someone’s den.”

He takes another shaky breath, “He was by no means a saint, but he didn’t deserve that. And I can’t help but wonder if I could have saved him that night. Logically, I know that he didn’t want help, and that he would run himself into the ground no matter what I did, but emotionally? There’s still a regrettably large part of me that thinks I could have helped him that night, but instead I was too busy thinking about--”

When he cuts himself off, Dean supplies, “Yourself?”

Castiel nods.

“Cas…”

“And perhaps I have projected some of that guilt and let it manifest with you and your problems,” Castiel explains. “For which I’m truly sorry, Dean. You deserve better than that.”

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped like I did, though,” Dean’s fingers drag through Castiel’s hair.

“That doesn’t mean you deserved poor treatment,” says Castiel.

“Hey,” Dean cradles his face in his hands. “You need it spelled out? I forgive you.”

Then Dean wrinkles his nose, “Sounds kinda biblical.”

A laugh bubbles out of Castiel, breaks the tension, and ne nods back, “It does, yes.”

With the laughter, Castiel finds himself able to breathe a little easier. He also finds himself pulled down onto the bed, cuddled up against Dean’s chest.

Safe.

“Cas, you know you could never fix another one of my problems and I’d still… I’d still love you.”

Castiel’s eyes pop open and he looks up at Dean.

“You love me?” he asks, because good god, the last thing he needs is an auditory hallucination to cap this day off just right.

Dean’s hand tightens on his shoulder and Castiel grins.

He settles closer to Dean's chest, still grinning as he declares, "I knew it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I may have miscalculated how many chapters were left. I think I'm off by one. As soon as I figure it out, I'll update the chapter count accordingly. :)


	17. Happiness in Living

Dean wakes around two in the morning with a full bladder and a boyfriend zonked out on his chest. Carefully, he extracts himself and tiptoes to the bathroom, desperate for relief.

He’s mid-stream when he remembers the night before, and he groans.  That’s probably why his head feels like it’s been on the wrong side of an elephant stampede. How’s a  guy supposed to feel after a night like that--hell, after a week like this one?

And, because the universe has some sort of sick sense of humor, of course the week ends with _Valentine’s Day_.

Despicable.

Dean washes his hands and splashes his face, hoping to shock himself into a parallel universe, one wherein he didn’t say it--a universe wherein he didn’t tell Cas that he loves him.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t love him, because he does. He actually fucking loves the guy. He just--the closest equivalent Dean can come up with is that Cas basically has him by the emotional nads now.

Cas has him in a way that no one else does. He knows Dean inside and out. In fact, Dean could completely strip himself of everything, bulldoze his walls, peel his skin off and pull out his own heart and Cas would still know it was him.

What’s more, Cas would probably still love him back.

When Dean emerges from the bathroom, he finds Cas awake too, looking confused as he surveys the empty tangle of sheets to his side. When Cas finally sees Dean standing at the foot of the bed, he visibly relaxes.

“Oh,” his voice growls low and sleepy in his throat. “I don’t know why I thought you left.”

Probably because Dean would have left were he with anyone else.

“S’all right,” Dean just shrugs, though he makes no move to climb back into bed. They fell asleep so early that Dean doesn’t know that he could doze back off again.

They go a long while without speaking, neither able to come up with a damn word they deem fit to say to one another.  Cas looks like he’s trying really hard to find something, though, sitting crisscross with a hand in his hair and his brow furrowed, pondering.

It accidentally leads to Dean breaking the silence with, “You’re cute.”

Cas looks up.

“Am I?”

Dean smiles and nods, “Real cute.”

“Not a word I expected out of you,” Cas stifles a yawn against his hand. “But I’ll take it. Because you love me.”

“Christ,” Dean folds his arms over his chest as Cas casts a shit-eating grin. “I take it back. I hate you.”

“I think you’re lying,” Cas crawls forward just enough to grab Dean and pull him back down onto the bed. He doesn’t just pull him down, though. Cas engulfs him in his arms, cocoons him in whatever magnetic field it is that draws them together time and time again.

Dean doesn’t want this kiss to feel different, doesn’t want to lend credence to any of the Hallmark romance bullshit, but it’s definitely a little more… intimate. Castiel holds onto him like he’s something to care for, something to cherish. It’s thrilling and comforting and downright terrifying all at once, and it leaves Dean holding onto Cas' shirt for dear life.

Cas catches him, though. He grabs one of Dean's hands and intertwines their fingers, presses kisses to his nose and his cheeks and asks, "All right?"

Dean smiles back and nods, heart squeezing in his chest as Cas brings him into another kiss. It takes Dean another few moments of mindless indulgence before he kicks into gear and rolls Cas onto his back.  He runs his fingertips up Cas’ arms and grabs both of his hands in his.

It’s a lazy, middle-of-the-night can’t-sleep makeout--one that leaves Dean’s entire gut in freefall. The way Cas moves into him, the way his fingers tighten around Dean’s, the way he then detangles their fingers and plants his hands on Dean’s ass; it’s all too much.

As Cas slips his hands beneath Dean’s waistband, Dean pushes Cas’ shirt up and scratches lightly down the length of his torso. Cas arches up into him, squeezes him tighter.

“That feels nice,” Cas hums.

“I can tell,” Dean grins, and makes a point to press his palm into the outline of Cas’ dick, already on its way to being good and stiff. He can feel Cas’ body heat up under the stimulation and he burrows into it, hiding in the crook of Cas’ neck.

“What are you doing?” Cas’ laugh rumbles through him, but it doesn’t seem that Dean needs to answer. Cas knows exactly what he’s doing, because he strokes over his nape and wraps Dean up in his arms again.

Dean sighs and presses them flush together. He needs to be as close to this man as is physically possible right now. He gets Cas’ shirt the rest of the way off, then follows with his own. Hot skin on hot skin shorts the flow of oxygen to Dean’s brain, makes him dizzy, but he continues on his very important quest for nudity.

The moment he casts aside the last piece of clothing, Dean starts kissing again. Jaw, neck, chest, until he’s down at the spot where Cas’ erection lay hard against his stomach. He teases his tongue just over the head, and grins when Cas lets out a soft groan.

Grinning, Dean takes Cas in his hand and starts to stroke. It’s light, even--not enough to do much other than get Cas twisting in his skin.  Then, just to be a pain, Dean leans in and presses hot, open-mouthed kisses right to where he knows they'll feel best.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Cas sighs as Dean works his way up his shaft. He outright moans when Dean sucks a few kisses to the head, and slaps his hands down on the mattress,“Dean, quit fucking around.”

“Pretty sure I’m dicking around,” Dean replies,  chuckling as Cas reaches down to thwap him on the side of the head. Through his smile, he insists, “Knock it off. We’re having a moment.”

“You and my dick?” Cas snorts.

“Shut up, you don’t know,” Dean squeezes. Before Cas can reply, Dean sucks him into his mouth, as far as he can go without gagging.

As much as he likes when Cas is in charge, knowing that he has such an effect makes Dean's dick throb between his legs. He refrains from touching himself, though. Right now, it's all Cas.

The pace Dean sets is slow, lingering, in an attempt to savor every last sigh and moan pouring out into the hot air between them.

And Cas lets himself be lavished. He gets harder in Dean’s mouth, whispers all sorts of dirty things to him, and so Dean gets bolder. He takes his free hand from where it rests on Cas’ hip and reaches up to the top of his head, detangling fingers from hair and twining them with his own instead.

Dean never understood hand-holding, really. His hands would always get sweaty and his fingers never really fit right, but with Cas... with the twitch of his fingers around Dean's, and the heat of his palm pressing into Dean’s, it couldn’t feel more intrinsic.

“Dean,” Cas squeezes his hand. “ _Dean,_ wait.”

As difficult as it is, Dean pulls off and looks up. It’s only another half second before Cas’ lips are on his. He licks inside Dean’s mouth, sighing at the taste of himself, like he always does. Dean doesn’t even get a chance to bask in it before Cas pulls away and opens up his nightstand drawer.

“Get me ready,”  he instructs, and pushes a bottle of lube into Dean’s hand.

Not one to go against an order, Dean cracks open the bottle and squeezes lube out onto his fingers. When he looks up again, Cas has rolled over onto his stomach with his ass up in the air, and his cock and balls hanging heavy between his thighs.

“Like this,” Cas says, and pushes back toward Dean. "Want you like this."

Dean takes a shaky breath. This man is going to be the end of him.

Cas lets out an unholy sound as Dean slips a finger inside him. He presses back onto Dean’s hand, silently begging him to just _get the hell on with it already._

“Easy there, tiger,” Dean chuckles, and Cas whines. Dean doesn’t let up, though. He stretches Cas nice and slow, strokes over that little bundle of nerves that has Cas’ face buried deep in the sheets, and relishes the sweet sounds coming out of him.

Dean grins, “Good?”

“Fuck you,” Cas tightens around his fingers and whines. His skin glistens under a sheen of sweat; his shoulder muscles undulate, and with them moves the deep blue spacescape. For whatever reason, that’s what makes Dean extract his fingers and make a grab for a condom. He rolls it over himself, groaning over the sensation of _finally_ , before he pulls Cas back and lines himself up.

Dean’s gut bubbles with need as he pushes inside. While his brain had been busy being pissed off at Cas, his body had been crying out for the closeness it’s come to crave. Here, as close to Castiel as he possibly can be, Dean feels right.

“You feel so good,” Dean murmurs into Cas’ ear, and gets a sharp whine in return.

“Dean,” Cas grunts and pushes back against him, urging him on. Except he does it without warning and it punches the air right out of Dean’s chest. “Dean, I’m getting impatient.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Dean coughs, and is met with another thrust back. “ _Fuck_.”

“I’d like to, yes,” Cas glances over his shoulder. “Apparently the concept eludes you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean finally gets a hold of Cas and pins his shoulders to the bed. “Tell that to that big-ass wet spot in your sheets.”

Cas stretches into the sensation of Dean’s hips as they slowly begin to roll against him. He really does feel amazing, but if Dean says anything he’ll get an earful back. Instead, he just lets them fall back into rhythm with one another. Dean pecks kisses all over the back of Cas’ neck, over the inky expanse of stars, while he reaches back up for the hands currently white-knuckling the sheets.

It gets hazy after that. Dean can feel his brain overheat, can tell his body took over long ago. The air around them gets heavy, the sheets get tangled and their bodies get sticky. Cas fucks back harder and harder the closer he gets, and Dean at least has enough of his wits to reach down and take Cas in his hand while they keep going.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Cas chokes and repeats, over and over, under his breath until he’s doing nothing but fucking Dean’s fist.

Dean didn’t quite expect this to have as profound an effect on him as it does. Having Cas so lust-drunk and fucked beyond comprehension sends Dean over the edge. His guts coil and he comes, all with Cas still moving like a madman on his cock. It’s only a handful of seconds before Cas gets there too, his orgasm ripping through him and shooting gobs of white all over the sheets.

“Holy mother of God,” Cas’ arms and legs give out, leaving Dean huffing on top of him.

“Sounded like a good one,” he smiles and rests his forehead against Cas’ shoulder.

“Oh, I missed you,” Cas stretches, catlike, through a facetious smile. “I missed you very, very much.”

“Shut up,” Dean gives him a light smack on the thigh, then admits, “Me too, though.”

Cas hums, content, while Dean pulls out and ducks back into the bathroom. He tosses the condom, grabs a wad of toilet paper and gets it damp under the faucet.

Naturally, before he gets back out to Cas, Dean catches his reflection in the little cracked mirror above the sink. He looks downright debauched, with his eyes all glassy and his body flushed and splotchy--a poster boy for the dangers of sexual deviance.

He looks happy.

**oo**

Dean knows he’s mid REM cycle or whatever the hell when the alarm goes off, because it takes him a good five minutes to actually register the blaring alarm. As he comes to, he realizes that Cas is spooned up behind him, both of them naked as the day they were born, both of them sporting some mad morning wood.  

The reasons to call in sick pile higher and higher.

Dean shifts, and suddenly Cas’ breath is on his ear, bidding him, “Good morning.”

“Kill me.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Cas grunts and tightens his grip on Dean’s waist. “Come on, it’s Friday. Twelve hours from now we’ll be right back here.”

He yawns, then amends, “If that’s something you want.”

Dean sighs and presses back against Cas. He almost asks him to keep talking, so his voice can still vibrate against him, but he yawns instead and rolls over. They stretch and yawn and paw at one another until they end up gasping and sighing their way through lazy morning handjobs.

This, of course, affords them little time to shower and absolutely no time for their morning coffee stop.

They enter the main building of the school with utter contempt on their faces, the both of them hungry and caffeine-starved, post-orgasmic glow lost to their whacked out sleep and the whole night before.

“Want me to sign you in?” Dean yawns as he flips to his time card. Cas, nods and empties the both of their teacher inboxes.

“Oh, look,” Castiel holds up a vivid red flyer, “A Valentine’s dance reminder.”

“Junk it,” Dean stifles a yawn against his hand.

“Are you telling me that you don’t want to go to the dance with me, Dean Winchester?”

“You’re not funny,” Dean mutters and caps the pen in his hand. “Anyone who told you you’re funny is not your friend.”

“That’s nonsense,” Cas checks over his shoulders, then pecks a kiss to Dean’s cheek. He grins, “You and I both know I’m hilarious.”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Cain greets as he emerges from his office, and Dean and Castiel both leap away from one another.

_Shit_.

Naturally, this doesn’t fool Cain even in the slightest. He folds his arms over his chest and stares at them with that strangely stoic face of his. Squaring his shoulders, he bids, “In my office.”

_Double shit._

Dean is way too tired for this--all he wants is his shitty teacher’s lounge coffee and another three hours to sleep.

Cain’s office is minimalist. There are a few wooden figurines that Dean knows for a fact Cain carved himself, as well as a few landscapes hung carefully on the wall. The chairs Castiel and Dean sit in are school-issued, bright red, so obviously outside of Cain’s desired aesthetic.

Cain takes his seat behind his desk and leans back in his chair, “You two know that fraternization among teachers is strictly against the rules, I assume.”

“Yessir,” Dean nods. He’s found that copping to rule-breaking is the way to go with Cain. The man can see through any lie, and he respects the hell out of honesty.

“And that, if romantic relationships do develop, you are to report them immediately,” Cain continues.

“Yes,” Dean nods once again.

“It’s my fault, sir,” Cas interjects. “I realize it’s not model behavior for my first year of employment, so if you have to punish anyone--”

“Hold on,” Cain holds up his hands. “Nobody is punishing anyone. I’m sure there are about a dozen reasons why you didn’t come forward. I understand. You might want to practice a little more discretion, though. I would hate to have to take disciplinary action for a policy I couldn’t give a shit about.”

… wait, what?

“That’s it?” Dean asks.

“Would you like me to come up with something else?” Cain asks. “I can be a little more creative, though I promise you’re not going to like it.”

“No, no!” Dean shakes his head. “It’s fine, obviously, I--”

“Thank you,” Cas supplies. “I believe is what he’s trying to say.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Thank you. Sorry, this is just not how I thought this was gonna go down.”

“Again, I can come up with something else,” Cain shrugs.

“That will hardly be necessary,” Cas lays a ginger hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s been a long week; you’ll have to excuse him.”

“Please don’t elaborate any further,” Cain says. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to afford you this sort of leniency in the future.”

Dean and Cas both agree to this, then sit there until Cain explicitly states, “You can get out of my office now.”

Dean’s nerves propel him out the door before Cas can even stand up. His boss knows he likes dick now. Even more, he knows exactly which dick he likes and the person attached to it.

Great.

“Hey,” Cas tries to catch up to him. “Dean, slow down.”

“Nope,” Dean shakes his head. “Just gonna keep walking. Probably forever.”

“Okay, obviously that wasn’t ideal,” Cas finally falls into stride with him.

“Yeah, ya think?”

“But he didn’t reprimand us or fire us,” Cas reasons. “He told us to be careful so he doesn’t have to.”

“It’s not that,” Dean shakes his head, bypassing the lounge in favor of heading right to his office.

“Then what?”

Dean stops just short of the hallway to the gym offices, and looks at Cas long and hard.

“You know I haven’t had to tell anyone about me and you?” he says. “That people just found out?”

Cas’ brow furrows, “Knowing you, I would have thought you’d have preferred not having to say anything.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’d prefer it if it was just a normal thing that no one got all uppity about,” Dean sighs and continues down the hall. “Not because…”

He drifts off, not willing to put into words what’s rattling around in his brain He fiddles with his keys and his office door, until Cas asks, “Not because... what?”

Dean pulls him in the door and shuts it. Before either of them can put their stuff down, Dean asks, “Am I obvious?”

“Obviously what?” Cas cocks his head. The light bulb only goes on after Dean makes a series of inscrutable faces, and his  brow furrows further. “Obviously queer?”

Dean nods, ready for Cas to laugh in his face and tell him that _of course he is_.

But he doesn’t. Cas just folds his arms over his chest and asks, “Does it matter?”

There’s an argument on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but it doesn’t make it out of his mouth. Yes it matters, of course it matters, because--

Huh.

“Any other time I would’ve said, _‘’cause then people will think I’m queer’_ ,” Dean leans against the edge of his desk. “But since I am… I guess it doesn’t.”

“I would have to agree,” Cas leans beside him. “Though, city by city that might vary. I wouldn’t exactly jump to hold hands outside of West Hollywood, since more than enough people seem to be insane these days.”

“Good point,” Dean nods. He looks at Cas only to find that Cas is looking back at him. They’re both smiling, and after a moment, Dean slings his arms around Cas’ shoulder. Dean leans in for a kiss, one that only lasts a few seconds before Castiel pulls back and gives Dean a very analytical once-over.

“But to answer your question, yes it’s very apparent to the keen observer that you are in fact into men,” Castiel grins, and jumps when Dean jabs him in the side.

“Smartass,” Dean mutters. There’s no retaliation from Cas, unless he considers making out with Dean until the warning bell rings a retaliation. Maybe it is, in a way, because Dean has to be extra sure that there’s nothing going on in his pants before he gets to homeroom.

That just wouldn’t be right.

Before he leaves his office, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. On the screen there’s a message from Gabriel that reads, _‘Cas seems a lot better today. What about you, hotlips? Fit as a fiddle?’_

Dean snorts and texts back, _‘sure’_.

Almost immediately, Gabriel responds, _‘I know what you did last night’,_ followed quickly not with words, but with _‘8===D - - - - - (   )(   )’_

_‘wtf is that’_

_‘a dick and a big ol booty, dumbass. guess whose’_

Needless to say, the conversation ends there.

**oo**

The boys go insane as soon as Dean walks through the door. They knew how bummed out he was this week, which means they probably went apeshit last night when he didn’t come home. When Cas comes in right behind Dean, Baron flips into overdrive. Cas doesn’t even get to put his stuff down before he’s got an armful of hyperactive beagle.

It’s one of the single most endearing things Dean has ever seen. He leans in and angles so he’s catching Cas’ lips instead of Baron’s tongue, and, even though it’s awkward as hell with the boys between them, it’s just right.

When they part, Cas has a dreamy, glazed-over look on his face.  Dean returns it, he’s sure, and bows their foreheads together.

“What should I do for dinner?” he asks.

Cas puts Baron back down on the floor and stretches his arms behind his back. Dean’s pretty sure it’s not meant to be provocative in any way, but, with Sam and Jess three hours away, how could he and Cas not take advantage of the opportunity?

Thirty minutes later, Dean sits up, grunting as he bends all of his muscles back into their proper places. Then the air hits the rug burn on his shoulders and he swears.

“What?” Cas asks, his voice still thick and heavy as he comes down from Cloud Orgasm.

“I gotta hunt down every woman I ever banged on the floor and apologize,” Dean hisses, the contact of his t-shirt on his skin even too much.

“You were very insistent that we do it right here,” Cas pats his thigh. “Very insistent.”

He looks over at the glass door to the balcony, through which Angus and Baron are peering curiously.

“Damn perverts,” Dean tries to stand, but he moves too fast. His center of gravity shifts and he topples right the hell over, onto Cas’ legs.

“Holy shit,” Dean barely gets out through his and Cas’ laughter. “What the hell did you do with my knees?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

And that’s sort of how it goes through the weekend.

They’ve never had the apartment to themselves, and so have never really had a weekend without Sam or Jess coming in and out. They don’t have to be quiet, they don’t have to worry about where or when they express affection (which Sam has assured Dean time and time again he does _not_ need to worry about, anyway); they can just be together. Dean can wake up early on Saturday and walk around in the buff. He can make breakfast almost entirely naked, and only concede to clothing when he starts frying up the bacon.

He and Cas laze around together, go to the grocery store together, take the boys for a walk before dinner. Cas even takes him to his appointment with Garth and hangs around at the donut shop on the corner until Dean is done.

It’s disgustingly domestic and Dean loves every second of it. For once, things don’t feel so lonely. He gets to sleep with Cas, gets to be with him as much as he wants. Dean didn’t realize how badly he’d craved a companion until now, when he finally has one.

That could be why Dean feels a genuine disappointment on Sunday afternoon, when Sam and Jess return. Dean and Cas are huddled under a blanket on the couch, bracketed by Angus and Baron and halfway through Last Crusade, when the front door swings open.

“Hey, you two,” Jess greets with a cautious smile. “This place looks suspiciously unviolated.”

“Just as long as you don’t go over it with a blacklight,” Sam quips from behind her. That’s when Dean notices that Sam doesn’t only have their bags, but a--

“Is that a baby walker?” asks Dean. Cas cranes his head to get a good look too.

“Oh, yeah,” Jess waves it off. “From my aunt. She lives down in La Jolla. We stopped by on our way home and she gave us this.”

“And a bunch of your cousin’s baby clothes,” Sam reminds her.

“Bummer,” Dean sits up a little more. “She’s kinda jumping the gun, isn’t she?”

“I’m four months from my due date,” Jess shrugs and places a hand on her belly. “There’s a lot to do. At least if everything else piles up, we’ll have clothes for him.”

Jess’ eyes go wide, and from the way Sam’s body comes to a complete halt, Dean is willing to bet that he was not supposed to know that.  

“You _liar_ ,” Sam accuses, the light behind his eyes lessening the severity of the words. “You had Dr. Monica tell you when I took that phone call, didn’t you?”

Jess pulls out jazz hands and offers a timid, “Surprise...!!”

“Wow, congratulations,” Dean grins right as Castiel asks, “How strictly will you be enforcing gender?”

When Dean nudges him under the blanket, Cas amends, “I don’t want to offend anyone with my baby shower gift.”

Dean’s only response is to hang his head and smile.

 “Well, thank you,” Jess indicates to Dean, “And Cas, anything you get will be perfect.”

“Just making sure,” Cas settles back into the couch.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Jess turns back to Sam, abruptly no longer having a group discussion. “My mom offered to come down for a few days so she can buy the crib.”

“Wait, so where does she think she’s staying?” asks Sam as he lugs their bags back toward their room.

“Don’t be like that. She’s staying here and you know it.”

Their bedroom door closes and suddenly Dean doesn’t feel so great.

“What’s wrong?” Cas’ foot nudges him. Dean pulls himself out of that part of his head, but there’s something that lingers, something that’s been stuck for so long that it’s just become a part of him.

“No, it’s nothing,” he waves it off.

“Dean,” Cas warns him, tone sharp, and Dean sighs.

“It’s just all getting real now,” he says. “Y’know, it’s one thing seein’ the bump growing and everything, but cribs and clothes and the whole _‘it’s a boy’_ deal kinda reminded me… this is happening. There’s gonna be a baby in this place real soon.”

“Well, you’ll adjust,” Cas offers. “The same as anybody else would. And if you can’t, then we can find you a new place. Maybe one that’s closer to work.”

“Yeah,” Dean sinks further into the couch and heaves another sigh, “Sammy’s gonna be a dad. I don’t know jack shit about bein’ a dad, y’know? Not exactly like we got a great example to go by. What if he needs me and I can’t--”

“But he’ll always need you, regardless of parental status,” Castiel shifts closer to him. “You’re his brother. His only brother, I might add. You’ll always have one another.”

Dean hums and wraps his arms around Cas, pulling him in close so he can kiss his cheek.

“And I’m confident that Sam will be a better father than the two of you had,” Cas smiles. Dean smiles back and lets Cas shift so Dean is under his arm, against his chest.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean nestles in further. He can’t help the way his grin goes doofy when Cas kisses the top of his head and murmurs, “Of course.”

**oo**

Monday morning comes, and even though the whole week is still ahead of him, he can’t help but whistle to himself as he walks the halls of Sandover. Even after a whole morning of work, including a pretty unproductive third period, he’s still riding the high from the best weekend he’s had in a good long while.

He told Cas he’d have lunch with him in his room, that first he had to stop by his office. What Dean didn’t realize is that, after only thirty seconds in his office, he would have a visitor. There’s a knock on the doorjamb and an Alan Corbett standing by.

“Hey, Corbett,” Dean greets. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing bad,” Corbett assures him. “I wanted to thank you. For everything. Ed told me he talked to you too... ”

“Oh, right,” Dean nods and sits behind his desk. “How’d your date go?”

“Great,” Corbett grins. “Really, reallygreat.”

Uh-oh.

“That great, huh?” Dean asks. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to hear another damn word out of this kid. On the other hand, he knows he has a responsibility to just make sure, “And you guys… everything was, y’know. Safe?”

Corbett’s eyes go wide, “Oh, no! Not _that_ great.”

“Okay, good,” Dean nods. “I mean, not 'good', but. I’m glad you’re not rushing it.”

Says the man who fucked his boyfriend before they even knew one another's names.

Out of some instinctual, maybe moral obligation, Dean opens up his drawer and asks, “You got protection?”

“Not on me, no,” Corbett frowns.

“Well, rule one: keep some on you at all times,” Dean hands over a string of condoms. “You never know what’s gonna happen and you don’t wanna be unprepared.”

“Okay,” Corbett nods. “Thank you.”

“I can’t stress it enough, man,” says Dean. “You need to be careful. STIs are the last thing anyone needs.”

“I get it,” Corbett’s voice cracks through a laugh. “I do. Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”

“And, um,” he clears his throat. “I know it’s kinda weird, me being your teacher and all, but. Y’know, if you ever have any questions or need to talk stuff out, you can come to me. Or, uh. Mr. Novak could help you too.”

“Should you be volunteering him for that?” Corbett asks.

Dean shrugs, “If not him or me, you _know_ Mr. Dickinson will be happy to assist you. I can’t promise he doesn’t have charts and diagrams, though. They’re all probably hand-drawn.”

Corbett laughs.

“Um, again, thank you,” Corbett’s smile dims into something softer. “For listening to me when no one else would, and understanding. I think I’d still be where I was back at the beginning of the year if it wasn’t for you, so. It means a lot to me.”

There’s a familiar prickle behind Dean’s eyes, but he quickly stuffs it back and stands.

“C’mere, kid,” he opens up his arms. Corbett thrusts himself forward and hugs Dean tight around his middle.

Dean’s a fucking mess on his best days, but he still managed to make this kid’s life a little better. That’s... he doesn’t know what that is.

“All right,” Dean pats him on the shoulder and pulls back. “Go eat your lunch. Can’t have your stomach growling all through fifth period.”

Corbett nods, thanks Dean again, and heads back down the hallway. Dean has to take a few minutes to compose himself before he can grab his lunch bag and walk to Cas’ room without crying like a baby.

Cas sits at his desk, his computer open and a cup o’ noodles steaming beside him.

“Man, I asked you if you wanted me to make you lunch,” Dean grabs a sandwich out of his bag.

“And I told you I had something here,” Cas mutters, preoccupied with whatever is on his screen.

“I’m gonna be pissed if your heart explodes,” Dean mutters, then pauses just as he’s poised to take a bite of his sandwich. “Christ, did I just say that?”

“You did,” Cas nods, attention unwavering. Dean waves, but Cas doesn’t look at him. So, he shoves his hand between Cas’ face and the computer screen, and that finally gets Cas to look up. “What?”

“Same to you,” Dean leans over to look at the screen. Even upside down, Dean can see the bright white Craigslist page. “Wait, what is this?”

“It’s an apartment,” says Cas. “I know you’re worried about your living situation. I thought I’d help.”

Dean comes around the desk to get a good look at the screen.

“Where is this place?” he asks. The pictures of the interior are pretty nice. It’s small, but not cramped. The kitchen is just the right size and there’s a washer and dryer in the unit.

“Down by Marina del Rey,” says Cas. “It’s a straight shot up to work, see?”

Cas zooms out on the map, and indeed there is nearly a direct route up to Sandover.

It’s all too good to be true, though, and Dean points out, “Dude, I can’t afford that on my own. You know what we get paid.”

“It wasn’t for you to afford on your own,” Cas says and Dean laughs.

“Man, who the hell’s--” he cuts himself off. Cas stares at him with earnest blue eyes, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“My lease is up in a few months,” he explains. “I was going to have to look for a new place anyway, and, as you said, you know what we get paid. I’ve already made sure that they allow dogs, and I think Angus and Baron would like being so close to the beach.”

He looks back at Dean and asks, “What do you think?”

Dean doesn’t respond, so Castiel continues, “And this is just one place. There are dozens within a reasonable price range and square footage. We wouldn’t have to decide on it now, but it doesn’t hurt to look at what’s out there…”

Somewhere between Dean wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his cheek, Cas manages to get distracted enough to look up and ask, “What?”

“Nothin’,” Dean smiles. “Just happy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, yes, but an epilogue is to follow in what will hopefully be the very near future. 
> 
> For those of you reading in real time: thank you for hanging in there these last couple of weeks. You're all wonderful.


	18. Epilogue: Life After Breakfast

The moment the last dry erase letter is in place, Dean turns to face the array of students both old and new, and waves, “Hey, everyone. I’m Mr. Winchester. I guess I’m not a sponsor or anything, but I’m pretty much always here. So, if you ever need anything--y’know, a shoulder to cry on, or whatever, you can always come find me.”

It’s only marginally easier than he expected it to be through his headache. Trust him to forget his meds on the counter the one day he knew he’d be outing himself to a group of teenagers. Every set of kids is different, and just because last year’s batch was cool in no way means that this year’s will be. There are some familiar faces, including Maggie and Corbett, and a couple of new faces that Dean recognizes from the first week’s round of gym classes.

“This is a safe space,” says Charlie, “for those of us who might not have a safe space anywhere else.”

Gabriel hums an agreement around his mouthful of what he calls “Traditional First Meeting” donuts. Dean still isn’t privy to all of their traditions, but he’s pretty sure they don’t include Gabriel eating half of the donuts all by himself.

Dean hopes they get a new student facilitator soon; he can’t handle just standing up here with his hands in his pockets all meeting while Gabriel stuffs his face and Charlie tries to get kids to talk about their feelings.

The bell rings then, sending the students shuffling up and out of their seats and Dean’s head into a bombastic drumline. Even operating at a hundred percent, it would be difficult not to think these kids are staring at him, and even more difficult to just assume they’re not judging his every move.

A music teacher, yeah, not so out of place at a QSA meeting. Nerdy computers teacher who has about a hundred different pairs of slacks sensible shoes, not exactly a stretch. There’s just something about being a male gym teacher in a queer space that makes people wary of his motives.

“How you doin’, big guy?” Gabriel claps him on the shoulder.

Dean shrugs, “All right, I guess. Still not used to being back on the school schedule yet.”

As if knowing he would need to present evidence, his lungs balloon up in a big yawn.

“I hear ya,” Gabriel nods, “Sleeping with Cas every night’s gotta be exhausting as shit.”

Dean shoots him a look, at which Gabriel puts both hands up before him, “I’m just saying, I know--”

“Nope,” Dean shakes his head and makes a break for the door. “Not interested in what you know.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Keep your perversions to yourself, please,” Dean stops in the doorway, “I don’t need to know anymore about you than I already do, Mr. Rainbow Socks and Sunglasses.”

Pride this summer had been something out of a horror movie, as far as Dean had been concerned at the time. The last thing Dean has ever wanted, in our out of the closet, is to be ping-ponged around by a bunch of sweaty, hairless men in 100 degree heat, and he and Cas let Gabe and Charlie drag them there anyway.

Not that there is anything hairless about either Gabe or Charlie, as Dean grudgingly got to find out.

However, it was kind of nice to get to stand so close to Cas and lean into him without anyone wondering what the hell they were doing. And it was really nice that they could kiss in broad daylight without an angry mob coming after them, or Dean’s anxiety crushing all the air out of his chest.

As Dean rounds the corner in the gym offices hallway, he’s met by the man in question, leaning lazily against Dean’s office door and scrolling through something on his phone.

“What’s that?” Dean asks.

“Stardust team reports discovery of first potential interstellar space particles,” Cas replies, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“Tsch, nerd,” Dean shakes his head. “You ready to bail?”

“Absolutely,” Cas finds a good place to stop and tucks his phone away. “How’d it go?”

“Probably just about how it always goes, but since it was new for me…” Dean jiggles the handle and pushes into his office. He holds the door open for Cas, continuing, “Since that was my first time doing anything like that, yeah it was a little intimidating. Plus, I got a fuck of a headache. ”

“I wonder why,” Cas shoves his hands in his pockets.

“No one asked you, smartass,” Dean grabs his bag from the floor and indicates silently for Cas to shut the door.

“Well, I’m proud of you regardless,” says Cas as Dean tugs his Sandover Prep Phys Ed polo up over his head. He came to school in his _For Those About to Rock_ shirt this morning (for courage, he supposes) and a pair of jeans that sends Cas whistling as soon as they’re back zipped up over his hips.

“Proud’s one word for it, I guess,” Dean bounces his eyebrows. “C’mon, we better get out of here and baby-proof.”

“Baby-proof?” Cas raises his eyebrows.

“I may have lied to Sam about some stuff,” Dean shoves his work duds back in his bag and slings it over his shoulder. Between the kids in uniform and Cas in friggin’ office casual, he sticks out like a sore thumb as they weave through the straggling students and out to the parking lot.

God bless whoever scheduled him and Cas to have the same free period, and at the end of the day, no less.

Plus, it makes for a nice drive back home.

Their building isn’t big or fancy, and yeah it’s kind of a stretch for them financially, and it’s annoying as hell living under the flight path for LAX, but Dean is willing to overlook all of that. They’re closer to the beach than Dean has ever lived in his life; the skies are vivid blue streaked with fluffy white; on a good day, when the wind blows, he can smell the ocean.

This place isn’t his or Cas’, or even Sam and Jess’. This place is theirs. It’s filled with crappy Goodwill furniture that they picked out together, and later fought over placing, and then even later than later ended up defiling.

The five hundred dollar deposit for the dogs really should have been for Dean and Cas.

As they walk up to their door, Dean sees their neighbor staring at them over the terracotta pots that line her patio. Castiel smiles at her and waves, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kravitz.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue. Three months they’ve been here and they still haven’t learned this woman’s name well enough to remember it, so Dean just calls her Mrs. Kravitz. It’s not off the mark, all right? All she’s ever done since she found out that they weren’t brothers is just watch them.

“Dude,” Dean nudges him, keeping his voice low. “That’s from _Bewitched_.”

“What?”

Dean rolls his eyes and drags Cas into their apartment, ignoring when Cas asks, “Why do you know anything about _Bewitched_?”

Baron shoots up from his spot on the couch, startling Angus out of his mid-afternoon nap. He leaps off the couch and starts jumping all over Cas, whining.

“All right, all right,” Cas chuckles and sets down his bag. “Let’s get you outside before we lose our security deposit.” He grabs Baron’s leash off of the hook by the door and fastens it, almost as if he’s been doing this for his entire life.

“What exactly are we baby-proofing?” Cas asks, pulling Dean’s eyes off of his ass and back up to his face.

“Oh,” Dean shifts his bag onto the counter and grabs the orange pill bottle by the coffee maker. “I got some of those foamy corner… things for the table, some safety gizmos--"

"Gizmos, huh? We're they out of whatchamacallits and whosits?"

"Shut up," Dean tosses the pills back with a swallow of water.  

"Did that gizmo come with a set of dentures?"

"Fuck off,” Dean flips him the bird and chugs the rest of his water. “I also got those lock things for the cabinets and a little playpen thing so the boys don’t trample him.”

“Well, that's a good idea, at least," Cas nods, trying to keep a now impatient Baron from tugging him back out the door. “I’m going to take him around the block a couple times, but I’ll try to make it quick.”

Cas gives him a kiss (then nips his bottom lip when Dean makes a face at him) and heads out the door, leaving Dean to start on the power-proofing.

It’s not that Robbie is particularly mobile, being only two months old, but Sam is crazy paranoid about any and all potential harm that could come to him. Dean can’t exactly fault the guy for that--only two months on this rock and he’s already managed to smack into a record-breaking amount of objects.

By the time Cas and Baron return, Dean has managed to get most of the proofing done. Baron, energy now considerably depleted, ready hops back up to his sunny spot on the couch and cuddle back up beside Angus.

Dean, on the other hand, is ready for Cas to help him with the so-called playpen, which so far has only shown itself to be a useless pile of mesh and foam and plastic. He thought getting everything else done would make it easier, but that doesn’t happen.

And the whole Cas helping him thing isn’t really going down like he planned either. Instead of calmly deciphering the directions, Castiel pushes Dean back onto the carpet and gives him a kiss.

“Thought you were gonna help,” Dean breathes.

“I didn’t say I was,” Cas shakes his head and bends down to kiss Dean, deeper this time.

Which is why, when a knock sounds on their door, they both scramble to finish buttoning themselves back into their jeans while simultaneously herding the boys into their room.

“Nice,” Jess nods when Dean finally opens the door. “Really classy.”

“Dude, waft out the funk at least,” Sam wrinkles his nose and covers his nose with his free hand. In Sam’s other hand is a car seat, carrying one Robbie Winchester-Moore, scrunch-faced and about as done with the world in his first eight weeks of life as his dear old dad has been in the last twenty-eight years.

“There’s the little twerp,” Dean grins and takes the car seat from Sam. He places it up on the counter and unclicks Robbie out of his confines. For having two gigantic parents, the little guy sure doesn’t take up a whole lot of space. Then again, Sammy was once a shrimpy little string bean too.

“You sure you guys are okay with doing this?” he asks. Dark circles under his eyes, swaying like a goddamn palm tree, and the guy is still willing to sacrifice even more sleep to make sure his kid’s okay.

What a trooper.

“We’re fine,” Dean shrugs. “Isn’t this what weird-ass uncles are for? Sittin’ on the egg while mom and pop have a little time to themselves?”

“Dude--”

Dean interrupts by grabbing Robbie’s teddy bear out of his car seat and belting into it, “ _I’ve been really tryyyyin’, baby-_ -”(“Dean…”)”-- _Try’n ta hold back this feeling for so-ho-ho long now_ \--”

Sam attempts to interrupt again, but Dean’s already in too deep, and rolls his hips along as he sings, “ _Let’s get it oooon OW! Le-het’s get it on_.”

Sam shushes him, but if Robbie’s not fussing then he can just deal with it.

“How the hell do you even do that without him crying?” Jess checks her son’s face, just to be sure. Hers and Sam’s eye bags were obviously a matching set; her hair frizzes out of its bun in all directions and her t-shirt is clearly on inside out. These two are a fucking wreck, that’s for sure.

Dean attempts to keep the conversation away from what hell she and Sam have been through and says, “Maybe he got the gene that doesn’t make him a little bitch.”

Dean punctuates this with a kiss to the top of Robbie’s head, only to get a smack on the arm.

“Will you please refrain from using derogatory terms in front of my child?” Jess demands.

“Dude, ‘the fuck!” Dean exclaims, groans, “Sorry, what the fudge?”

“Oh, no,” Jess folds her arms, “Swear away. It’s the slurs we care about. We have to start early if we don’t want him to be in a fedora by the time he’s thirteen.”

“They just keep getting younger and younger,” Dean shakes his head and looks down at Robbie. He’s got Dean’s shirt collar in his fist and is actively attempting to shove it in his mouth. “Well, whaddya say, kid? Ready to have fun with your Uncle Dean and Uncle Cas?”

Obviously, he does not respond.

“We really appreciate this,” says Jess, and she comes in to kiss Robbie on the cheek. “Mommy and daddy will see you tomorrow, all right sweetheart? Be good for Uncle Dean and Uncle Cas.”

“And if there’s any trouble at all, call us and we’ll come right back,” Sam adds, then takes his turn kissing Robbie’s cheek too.

“Any trouble you can’t handle,” Jess shakes her head yes, but her eyes say absolutely not.

At this point Dean isn’t sure whether they’re going to have sex until all hours of the morning, or just sleep for twelve hours straight.

By the time Sam and Jess eventually get one another out the door, Cas has gotten out the directions for and started to set up the playpen. Dean sits beside him and props Robbie up against his chest so that they’re both facing Cas.

Cas, caught up in construction, doesn’t notice, so Dean places a ginger finger on Robbie’s chin and puts on a voice to say, “Hey, Uncle Cas. You look so cool building my playpen for me.”

Cas snorts and glances over at the both of them.

“Ventriloquism suits you,” he grins. Dean briefly sticks out his tongue before he buries his nose in Robbie’s soft brown hair.

Robbie is an interesting kid. He doesn’t like to be held for long periods of time, instead preferring to lie face down on the carpet with his toys and teddy bear. It’s just as well that he fusses when he does--Dean has to unpack the giant diaper bag that Jess left on their couch, anyway.

“Man, we oughta charge this thing rent while it’s here,” Dean mutters, and Cas lets out a laugh. Dean is only kind of joking, though. This thing is practically busting at the seams with spare onesies, weird little baby socks, diapers aplenty, and more bottles of breastmilk than Dean knew could come out of one person.

And on top of it all, Jess typed up this psychotic schedule that he’s pretty sure no sane person could follow even on their best day.

“This is Type A on a whole new level,” Dean holds the paper out to Cas, who now lies flat on his stomach in front of Robbie.

He looks up from making an idiotically dorky face and reminds him, “They are growing and nurturing another human being, Dean. It’s a task that shouldn’t be taken as lightly as it so often is is.”

“Preachin’ to the choir,” Dean sighs, and goes to pack away the milk in the refrigerator.

By the time he’s done and ready to feed the kid, Robbie is in his playpen and the boys have been released from the bedroom. As expected, they both sniff around the playpen, the diaper bag, the car seat--anything Robbie has touched.

It's the first time they've ever seen such a small human, and Robbie for sure hasn't ever seen anything as big as Angus before.

Except for his dad, maybe.

It’s a lot to take in for anyone, but Robbie doesn’t know safe from unsafe yet and so starts to cry. Angus continues to sniff as Baron’s tail goes straight up, the rest of him paused, waiting.

"C'mere, kiddo," Dean plucks Robbie from his pen and presses him to his chest. He still wails, so Dean starts to bounce, reassuring in soft tones, “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

"Sweetheart?" Cas asks, where he's now settled on the couch with a stack of papers beside him and a red pen in hand.

"Dude, it's week two, why do you have a mountain of shit to grade?" Dean shifts Robbie up against his shoulder, jibe at his chosen term of endearment now forgotten.

"They signed up for AP World History," Cas shrugs. "If they aren’t prepared for it, they’d better defect soon.”

"Sadistic prick."

"Well, you would know,” Cas glances up, still with that smile on his face.

_‘Feed at 7:00 pm, should eat between 3 and 4 oz. After, bathe and lotion before diaper and jammies. Read one or two books then set him down to sleep. Should be out by 8 o’clock. Wake for a feeding and diaper change around 10, and then he should fall right back asleep. He will wake you for his 3-4am feeding.’_

It’s nearly eleven o’clock and Robbie has only just stopped crying. Dean gave up a long time ago and resigned himself to the couch. Cas is better at this part, a lot calmer than Dean. He walks Robbie around the apartment until he falls into a string of pathetic little baby whimpers. It makes Dean want to hug the poor thing and never let him go, while also making him want to rip out every last hair on his own head.

Dean can tell the very second Cas tries to put him back on the bed. The crying starts up all over again, and Cas lets out a final, “That’s it.”

He reappears with Robbie in his arms and plops down on the couch with Dean. He’s stopped crying again, but his little face is still contorted in a pout. Though he calms the longer he sits with Cas and Dean, he doesn’t drift off to sleep at all like Jess said he would.

“Right back asleep, my ass,” Dean mutters. Cas has Robbie on his lap, facing the TV. Within a minute, Robbie's eyes glaze over but do not close, while Cas slumps into Dean.

"Aw, c'mere baby," Dean slings his arm over Cas' shoulder and kisses the top of his head.

"Please don't make me have children," Cas mumbles. "I love him but I also love sleep."

"Yeah," Dean yawns. "This is nice, though. Me, you, the boys, TV…"

"It is very nice, Dean, yes,” Cas agrees through a yawn of his own.

“Here, hand ‘im over,” Dean pulls Robbie over onto his lap. Grateful, Cas lets out another yawn and nestles up even closer.

And in that moment, everything’s just sort of perfect. To say that it all happened so fast would not only be a cliche, but an incredible understatement. He’s almost afraid to think on it too long, because what if he talks himself out of this whole life? He hasn’t had any major relapses lately, but that doesn’t mean one couldn’t be on the horizon.

“Hey,” Cas pokes him in the side. “Wanna put Robbie in your stock pot on the stove and send a picture of it to Sam?”

“Uh, hell yeah I do,” Dean replies.

Good, he can worry about the crappy stuff later, then. Just as well, because tonight isn’t crappy, and you know what?

Between the two of them, Cas and Dean can keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much to everyone who's been giving me love and encouragement and support. It means a lot to me. This fic was definitely a doozy, but I've enjoyed it thoroughly and I'm so happy to have gotten to share it with you. 
> 
> You're all amazing.


End file.
